


Love Yourself (So No One Has To)

by AestuumMaris



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, But Emotionally Constipated, Dick Grayson is Good But He's Very Bitter and Sad at Bruce so he Takes it Out on Jason, Found Families, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Robin, Jason-Centric, eventually, gratuitous DIRECT QUOTATIONS from literary work bc I am shameless, gratuitous cameos, gratuitous literary references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AestuumMaris/pseuds/AestuumMaris
Summary: Jason recoils. He can’t possibly mean...“Are you firing me?"“You’ve proven twice over this week that you can’t handle Robin.”“You can’t fire me! Robin is mine. Robin is me!”“Robin is Batman’s partner,” the bastard says with about as much expression as a stone wall and twice as cold. He turns away, “and as of today, Batman has no partner.”(Or: Jason is fired after the Garzonas affair and never finds his birth certificate.)





	1. A Tongue Like a Nightmare That Cuts Like a Blade

**Author's Note:**

> I know Robin!Jason is much happier and more of a jokey type of kid, but seeing as this is near the end and tensions have been running high, I think he's gonna be in a bit of a sour mood. Especially spending time with Dick. (Whom I love but was not a good brother to Jason)
> 
> Takes place a few days after The Diplomat's Son.
> 
> Title from Therapy by All Time Low

Jason’s still on probation after Garzonas, and part of his punishment is going to the circus.

Well.

Bruce says it’s an opportunity to build rapport with Nightwing, not a punishment, but all three of them know different. Which is why Dick went ahead and abandoned him in the creepy back corner of the circus grounds. He’s just making it back into a populated section—as in, two or three stalls and about five people—when someone yanks on his sleeve.

He looks down at the woman examining his palm. Obviously some kind of fortune-teller. “Can I help you?”

“There must be great evil in your heart, to compel you to kill so young,” gasps the old woman.

“I’ve never killed anyone!” Jason spits, furious. “Screw you, lady.” He yanks his arm away and turns to go when, from out of nowhere, a larger arm clamps on his shoulder.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Dick announces cheerily, with an undercurrent of steel. “I think you owe Madame Carla an apology. Don’t you, Jason?” Dick squeezes his shoulder harder.

Jason takes a second to debate the merits of kneeing Nightwing in the balls and getting the hell out of Dodge, but another squeeze and he knows, with the certainty of the hero worship he can’t break himself of, that he can’t take Nightwing.

“Sorry,” he mutters, ducking out of Dick’s hold. The ass can’t even be bothered to look at him, just keeps smiling at the old bat.

“My little brother’s been abnormally socialized,” he says with a big charming grin _,_ like the absolute shithead that he is, but Jason still has to stop and take a second to wish that Dick really means that. The brother part, not the rest of it.

But he doesn’t—he’s made that unavoidably clear—and anyway wishing for the impossible is for suckers.

“You’re not my brother, asshole,” Jason says, and to hell with Bruce’s plans; that’s enough ‘rapport’ for one day. He kicks Dick in the shin—hard enough to knock him off-balance—and sprints into the crowd. Bruce is just going to have to deal with the fact that his son is categorically the _worst_.

It’s not like Batman has any issue with ditching _his_ allies.

He’s lost Dick and is nearing the entrance of the circus when suddenly some rich-looking touristy guy is in his way. Going too fast to stop, he grabs the man’s arm and swings himself out of the way, continuing to the entrance.

Crisis averted.

“Stop, thief,” someone shouts over the din of the crowd, and Jason’s first instinct is to snort because _tourists._ No Gothamite would say something so inane.

His second instinct is to turn back. He’s Robin. He can make a difference and he can help people. Stopping crime is his job and his hobby now, and not only can he help some poor sucker, he can also probably win some points with Bruce for stopping crime on his day off.

Even though “Batman doesn’t take days off”.

He spins to figure out the direction the thief went when the crowd closes in on him. Arms grab at him from the undefined mass of endless bodies. He bats them away but the crowd draws in closer, holding him still, and there are no moves to get out of this that he can explain away. He’s a civilian today, and he’s gotta act like it.

“Thought you could get away, huh, kid?” That guy whose arm he grabbed is at the front of the crowd. He sneers at Jason and then reaches into his pockets.

“Hey,” Jason yelps, struggling against the mass of bodies. “Back off, what the hell are you doing? Let me go!” The guy pulls out Jason’s wallet. “What are you doing? That’s mine!”

“Yours?” The boob pulls out Jason’s bills. “Stealing something doesn’t make it yours.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Jason says, fighting the urge to break the arms holding him and the face in front of him. “My dad gave it to me, moron. Now give it back!”

The rich tourist looks at Jason’s faded hoodie and his crappy wallet and laughs. “You stole it, he stole it, whatever. Street trash don’t have dads with this kind of cash, kid. It’s either stolen or you got it on some street corner.”

The words have barely left his leering mouth before Jason’s fist drives them back in. He launches himself at the waste of space in front of him. This guy needs a beating more than Jason needs a secret identity. He punches the creep’s face until he passes out, and he turns for the next guy. He barely sees Dick before his hand is reaching out and pinching his neck. Darkness creeps over his vision and the people, the noise, and the anger fade away with his awareness.

He wakes to the sound of people arguing. What else is new?

“...killed a man two days ago, and now he’s beating on civilians! Jeez, Bruce, what’s it going to take for you to see that he’s dangerous? Does he need to bring you a bag full of severed heads?”

“This has nothing to do with you, Dick,” Bruce says. “I don’t need your input.”

“This has everything to do with me, Bruce. He’s wearing my uniform and my name and killing people!”

“Screw off,” Jason spits at him, sitting up. “I didn’t kill Garzonas and I sure as shit haven’t been killing ‘people.’”

“That’s enough, Jason,” Batman says severely. He turns to Dick. “I don’t need you anymore,” and they all hear the vicious double meaning in that. “You can head back to Blüdhaven now.”  

Dick scowls at him balefully and storms out.

Bruce turns to Jason.

Crosses his arms.

Waits.

Jason breaks. “I don’t know what happened, B, they just grabbed me out of _nowhere_ and took my wallet and that guy —”

“The _civilian_ with fractured cheekbones, a broken nose, and a severe concussion?” Batman pins him with a glare. “You left your ally behind. You attacked a civilian. You put your identity as Robin in jeopardy.  And your excuse is _you don’t know what happened_?”

Jason bristles. “ _N_ _ightwing_ left me first, Bruce, and it’s not like you don’t ditch Gordon whenever he turns his back.”

“Don’t derail the conversation.” Bruce snaps at him. “You brutalized an innocent today, risked your safety and your identity.” His nostrils flare. “You’re done.”

Jason recoils. He can’t possibly mean...“Are you _firing_ me?”

“You’ve proven twice over this week that you can’t handle Robin.”

“You can’t fire me! Robin is mine. Robin is _me_!”

“Robin is Batman’s partner,” the bastard says with about as much expression as a stone wall and twice as cold. He turns away, “and as of today, Batman has no partner.”

Jason flinches. He can feel a burn building behind his eyes.

He should have known this was too good to last. He’s seen it happen often enough.

But he’s gone _soft_.

“Fine,” he sniffs furiously. “Fine. Fuck you, I don’t want it anymore.” He turns and flees the cave because he sure as _hell_ isn’t waiting around for Bruce to kick him out. He’s gotta keep _some_ dignity.

Jason’s got his two favourite books and all his money packed up in less than a minute; the kind of packing he did whenever Mom got evicted. The kind of packing that means there’s nowhere to go and no time to stay.

He snatches up his utility belt and pulls out everything with trackers. He doesn’t have time to disable them but he can’t go off unarmed. He shoves an assortment of gadgets into his pocket and drops the belt, booking it out the door and down the stairs.

He rushes into the kitchen to shove food into his bag and his pockets. He hasn’t been on the street in a while. He’s gonna want something to hold him over. Want—not need. Because no matter what Bruce fucking Wayne thinks, Jason can do just fine without him.

He’s just stepping out of the pantry when Alfred walks in with bags of groceries. He startles.

“Master Jason?” He raises an eyebrow. “Would you be so kind as to inform me why your pockets are overflowing with my fresh bread?”

Jason hesitates. He loves Alfred, he really does, but he knows, like everyone who’s ever met the man knows, that Alfred is always in Bruce’s corner. It doesn't matter that Alfred reads with him, and looks the other way when he pranks Bruce, or that he never makes him talk when he has nightmares but he always brings tea. Alfred is not Jason's.

To hell with it, he decides. He’s never gonna see either of them again anyway.

“I’ll send you a first edition if I find one, Alfie.” Jason grabs the old man into a hug. He pulls away before Alfred can recover and is halfway out the door when he stops and turns around. “Thanks for caring about me.” He smiles weakly and disappears.


	2. Handful of Moments I Wish I Could Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perspective is everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so blown away by everyone's responses. Thank you so much! I want to respond to you all, but I am easily overwhelmed, so let me just say that many of your guesses have put a smile on my face (for what reasons I won't share), that your feedback has been wonderful, and that I hope you continue to enjoy this. Also, I hope this chapter sheds some light on the last one. This is the Batfamily after all-they're very good at miscommunication.  
> (Also, all chapter titles will continue to be from Therapy by All Time Low)
> 
> Enjoy!

“—Wayne! Master Wayne!” Bruce snaps to attention at Alfred’s uncharacteristically frazzled tone.

“Alfred?”

“It’s Master Jason, sir. Something is terribly wrong—”

“I know,” Bruce shakes his head, face hard. “He’s losing it. He’s too aggressive. He’s careless with his own safety and with the safety of others. He’s been diving into fights like a man looking to die, and I know why.” He takes a breath, waving Alfred off when he opens his mouth. “He hasn’t at all dealt with the deaths of his parents, especially that of his mother, and being my partner lets him take out his emotions in the most unhealthy—”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred bursts out, “Master Jason has run away.”

“What?”

“I came upon him in the pantry filling his pockets and his bag with food. He looked...supremely agitated. He—sir, he hugged me and thanked me for caring about him, after which he fled.”

Bruce is at the Batcomputer well before Alfred is done, pulling up security camera footage. They watch in silence as Jason desperately fills his bag and flees the manor.

Bruce sits, unblinking, frozen.

Then he’s a whirlwind of activity, grabbing weapons, his suit, anything he thinks will help him track down his boy. It doesn’t matter to him that the sun hasn’t yet set, that Batman is the night. Wasting time to protect his mythos will lose him his son, and he’s not going to let that happen.

“Did he say anything else?” Bruce asks, his trademark composure lost. “Anything to let you know where he’s going, what he’s doing, why he’s doing this?”

“No, sir. I can’t imagine what would drive him to this. Did anything happen on his outing with Master Dick that might have caused such an extreme reaction?”

Bruce freezes briefly, his mind running through everything Dick said, everything he said, everything Jason _did_ , and his breath catches imperceptibly in his throat.

 _No_.

Unwilling, for once, to trust his instincts, Bruce pulls up the scene on the Batcomputer. His eyes fixate on things they’d dismissed before, focused as he was in his fury at both his sons and his crippling worry for Jason. The tears clinging to dark lashes, belying the sharp anger and defensiveness. The desperation on his face as he begs to keep Robin and the hopelessness and betrayal scrawled over his young face when he is refused. The protective hunch of the shoulders and the determination in his steps as he flees the cave.

Bruce doesn’t watch it again. He paid attention this time, and he got everything he needs—everything he could have used to prevent this if he’d set aside his emotions and just used his skills and looked at his partner, his ward.

Former partner.

If Bruce has given Jason cause to think that he’s no longer welcome in his home, Bruce will never forgive himself. Right now though, forgiveness is much less important than his main goal.

“I have to find him, Alfred.”

“Indeed, sir. Might I suggest asking Master Dick to look for him as well?”

“I don’t have time for that.” Bruce brushes past him, rushing into the Batmobile. As the top closes, he shouts, “Keep an eye out in case he comes back!”

But they both know that won’t happen.

Batman patrols the streets at double his normal speed. Instead of his usual careful eye, searching for the most benign seeming suspicious activity, his entire being is focused on finding one small fifteen year old in a faded red hoodie.

He’s been out for an hour and a half, now on foot, scouring Jason’s usual patrol routes and his former haunts when he sees a flash of blue in the corner of his eye.

“What?” He says flatly as Nightwing lands on top of the Batmobile.

“ _Agent_ _A_ said we’ve got a runner.” His brow furrows and he looks briefly worried. Then he refocuses on Batman, answering the question they both know he won’t ask. For all Nightwing’s professed independence, running off to play at being the guardian of his own city, he still defers to Batman. “I came back as soon as I heard. Already wasted too many hours between here and Bl üd. I expect compensation for the gas money,” he jokes.

Batman grunts, then returns to scanning the alley with critical eyes.

“When did he leave?”

“After you.”

Nightwing, used to Batman’s irritatingly terse manner, hears what isn’t said. “You chewed him out, huh, B? Gave him a talking to and he took off?”

Batman grunts again. Nightwing gives a low whistle. “Wow, B, what did you say? I mean, it took you _years_ to drive me away. How’d you manage it with the kid in a coupla days?” It’s unnecessarily cruel, but jabs at their sensitive issues have become so commonplace for both of them that it quickly passes away in deference to the matter actually at hand.

“I took necessary precautionary measures.” Batman’s jaw is clenched and he’s avoiding eye contact with his oldest son.

Nightwing is uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, he speaks—also avoiding eye contact, and very quiet. “You benched him?”

Batman can see clearly that Nightwing is torn between happiness—no, he revises, not happiness exactly, more like vindication—and fury. “You made one valid point this evening.”

Nightwing’s nostrils flare. He doesn’t ask, he’s got too much pride, and really, he probably already knows what Batman means. Their shouting match lasted hours, but only one thing he said during it is applicable now.

“No wonder he ran,” Nightwing comments. “I’d do the same.”

“You _did_ the same.”

Nightwing rears back, disbelief written in every line of his masked face. “I did _not_ , B, it’s your own inability to freaking let me—” He cuts himself off, jaw closing with a loud clack of teeth, refusing to be baited in a years old argument that never gets anything done. It’s a shame. It would have been optimal to get him angry enough to walk away and let Batman do what needs to be done. “Whatever, Batman. Let’s find your newest ex-Robin before he gets killed—or kills someone else.” Batman grunts dismissively. Nightwing swings off, preferring the bird’s eye view to solid ground.

 

Jason watches from the dumpster as Batman’s shadow sweeps over the alley and disappears. He waits for a few minutes, aware that Batman is ever vigilant and might still be around. He’s _definitely_ left a camera. Jason flexes his fists and pushes them against his thighs.

He doesn’t know what Batman wants with him, but he’s with Nightwing, and it’s not like Nightwing is gonna be particularly concerned for his well being. He would have been before—before. But now those brief flashes where Dick gave him advice, or gave him comfort, or palled around with him are gone, leaving nothing but Nightwing and his disdain for murderers.

A disdain Batman shares. Either he wants to take him to CPS and make sure he’s _safe_ and _cared for_ and one hundred percent out of Bruce’s hair, or he wants to punish him, which isn’t really like B at all. He wouldn’t even consider it, except...

Felipe Garzonas _did_ die. Jason didn’t even try to save him. Nightwing thinks he murdered him. So does Batman.

If Batman thinks Jason broke his One Rule, his all important law, and that he’s gonna do it again, even to civilians like Nightwing thinks, then he might throw him in jail.

Fuck that.

He’s not going to jail and he’s not going through the joke that is Gotham foster care, especially with his record—Bruce Wayne’s cast-off, a repeat juvenile offender, criminal dad, drug addict mom. There’s a reason he didn’t go to social services when his mom died. Anyone who’d ever been willing to take him in would be way more hazardous to his health than living on the streets.

Except for Bruce. Bruce was good. All Jason could have ever wanted in a d—

Well.

It doesn’t matter now. The last three years were nice, but Jason shouldn’t have let himself believe he could have that life,

Jason’s gonna disappear. Batman may know Gotham, but Jason was born and raised in its hidden places. He can avoid Batman for a while, and when Batman can’t find him to bring him to justice or to some stupid social worker who’s just gonna throw him in Juvie, he’ll forget about him.

And Jason will be back where he belongs.

He shakes himself, looking around to make sure Batman’s not hanging around in the shadows—just like when he was a little kid and his dad made him keep watch—because he knows what to watch for, knows where Batman is going to be, learned how to pick out the darkest black in this city of shadows. When he doesn’t see anything, he pulls out the tiny localized EMP he snatched from his utility belt and sets it off. He waits another five seconds and leaps from the dumpster, tearing down the alley and deeper into the heart of Gotham.


	3. Keeping This Up Could Be Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The streets were Jason's home once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW everybody! You're all so nice, I want to scream! I am constantly blown away by your responses. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'm looking forward to showing you what comes next!

His eyes burn. Every blink feels like he’s dragging sandpaper over his eyes. He’s been awake for a bit over a day now, more if you don’t count being unconscious as sleeping, and he hasn’t slept well in—three years, really, but even worse since the thing with Garzonas. The low afternoon sun is glaring off Gotham’s glass skyscrapers, and the shine is scalding his eyes.  But if he sleeps, he’ll lose his books, his food, and the flimsy cardboard he fished out of a dumpster and set up as his shelter.

So. Awake it is.

Maybe he’s overreacting—it’s not like there’s anyone else in this alley. Jason’s always been good at finding good places to be alone. But just because there’s no one now doesn’t mean there won’t be when he wakes up, and his street-born vigilance has only been sharpened by years of crazy Bat paranoia. He shoves himself into a shadowy nook, trying to cover himself with his cardboard. Trying to make himself as unnoticeable as he can—and he is— _was_ —Robin. Being sneaky’s the whole damn job.

He’s careful. His back is covered by the wall he’s leaning against, his backpack clipped to his chest and shoved between him and the wall. His tired eyes are scanning the filthy alley and darting up to the roofs. It might be full daytime now, but when B gets something in his head, it takes a while to discourage him. He could be anywhere, impersonating a gargoyle, or if he’s scared of his delicate skin getting a sunburn, he’s probably tapped into CCTV.

He really should have told Batman just how creepy he can be back when his opinions still mattered, Jason muses. Because honestly, Nightwing can be just as creepy, so he won’t be any help, and the both of them don’t care about personal space—as evidenced by how often they mess—messed—around with his stuff.

Actually, ‘mess’ is probably right. If they really are still after him, they’re probably digging through whatever he left behind, looking for clues. Clues in his clothes.

Cluethes.

Jason blinks hard, shaking his foggy, heavy head. Now is not the time for Boy Wonder puns, especially ones so bad Dick himself would cringe. He blinks again, but this time his eyelids won’t open back up. He gives up trying to force them open. He has no coffee, and while he has stayed awake for much longer, he’s been a little stressed recently; being accused of murder and also attacked by a mob doesn’t exactly fill him with energy.

He figures he can at least keep an ear out while he rests his eyes.

 

He’s a fucking idiot, is the first thing that pops into his head when he shoots awake at the tug at his backpack. He cracks his eyes open, just barely, to scan the assholes who think robbing him is a good idea, but the only thing he notices is the moon high in the sky.

He fell asleep. In an alley. In _Gotham_.

How the hell did he survive past childhood?

He pushes away the knowledge that he never would have let his guard down in the years before his Wayne Manor excursion, and, half asleep, with his eyes still mostly closed, he strikes at the shadowy shapes he sees.

His elbow plows into the backpack thief’s soft stomach. His kick snaps against a chest. He rolls, and comes behind a small body, rearing back to—

A small body?

Jason stops dead, adrenaline leaving him fully awake, and takes in the figures of the robbers.

They’re three little kids. Jason looks them up and down critically, his Robin training filling in blanks. They’re between approximately five and eleven years old, all underweight, wearing clothes too large but not especially threadbare. They’re street kids alright, definitely used to doing what it takes to survive, but they aren’t hardened criminals—they aren’t the kind of kids who’d club Batman with a tire iron. They aren’t even the kind of kids who’d do something as serious as lifting tires at all. Petty thieves, not doing anything more than they need to do to stay alive and out of the hands of the Gotham scum who take advantage of children.

The little girl he kicked is still on the ground, possibly unconscious from the fall. The child he elbowed, of indeterminate gender, probably the oldest, is trying to stand up, breathing hard. Angry and scared. The little boy he almost headbutted is more than likely around five years old. On the other hand, malnourishment tends to stunt growth, so Jason allows that he may be as old as eight. Still...

He just attacked _kids_. For what? Nothing. For trying to survive. For doing what he’s been doing all his life.

Yeah. Some hero he is.

Was.

Jason shakes his head. No, he _is_ a hero, he _is_ Robin. He’s gotta be. He told Bruce Robin is who he is and he wasn’t messing around. He raises his arms in a distinct “I come in peace” gesture.

“That stuffs mine,” he says. Just ‘cause they’re kids doesn’t mean he’s gonna just hand over all his stuff. He protects what’s his, and sharing doesn’t come naturally to him. “Next time pick an easier target.”

“You were sleeping,” says the oldest. “Don’t get much easier ‘n that.”

“Asshole,” Jason mutters, and yeah the kid’s eleven but the kid’s also an asshole, and maybe someone should say it. His eye catches on the little girl and his whole body slumps, Guilt rises into his throat and chokes him. He moves almost unconsciously toward her; he’s gotta make sure he didn’t hurt her too bad. He takes about two steps toward her before  the oldest kid’s in his path, trying to protect her.

“Screw off,” the kid snaps, trying to throw a punch. Jason sidesteps. Eases up.

He sighs. Bratty children are still children. Even ones that have raised themselves. Jason knows that better than most. And he knows Gotham is never kind, not to people like them and not even to people like Bruce. Robin can make up for that.

“Listen, kid—”

“I’m not a _kid_.”

“Well, I haven’t got anything else to call you, twerp.” Jason gives a crooked half-smile.

The kid shuffles a little, glaring, obviously not wanting to give up personal info. Smart kid. Clearly knows the stranger-danger rules.

Jason pushes past and picks up the girl.

“Let her _go_ ,” the kid yells, swinging wildly. Jason shifts the little girl’s weight to his left arm and knocks the kid down with his right.

“Relax, shortstack,” he says, knowing perfectly well that the kid won’t, and shouldn’t, relax. “You know the Free Clinic? I’m taking her there. She’s gotta get her head checked out. The doctor there, Leslie Thompkins, she ain’t no snitch. She’ll fix you up and send you on your way, no questions asked.” He starts walking, and the two other robbers struggle to keep up. He adjusts his pace.

“What are you, some kind of freakin’ Good Samaritan?” The oldest one asks. Jason decides to call the kid Gavroche unless he gets a real name. _Gavroche_ has got a death grip on the little guy’s arm and is practically dragging him along.

Jason snorts. “None of those in Gotham.”

Gavroche’s tiny jaw clenches. “‘S not true. We got Batman.”

Jason tenses up. He scans his surroundings, remembers to look up. He forgot about Bruce; forgot about the hunt in the face of a coupla kids who need help. It’s black as pitch; if Batman is out there, Jason will never see him coming.

He walks faster.

But he doesn’t say anything. These street kids still believe in Batman, aren’t scared of him, don’t hate him. Jason’s not going to take away their hope. There are enough things that can do that in this city.

They’re just a few blocks away from Leslie’s clinic when he hears a scream. Jason’s instincts kick in and he hands off the little girl to Gavroche, then pulls some oranges out of his pockets and hands them to the tiny boy. “Take her straight down that alley and turn left. Keep walking. You’ll see it.”

They don’t argue. They’re smart kids; they’re street kids. This is Gotham. You hear a scream, you walk away.

Unless you happen to be some kind of Good Samaritan.

Jason pulls out the crumpled domino mask he grabbed from his utility belt and plasters it to his face.

Time to go to work.

He clambers up to the rooftop, clinging to fire escapes and rickety eavestroughs. He gets to the rooftop just in time to hear the gunshots. Jason scrambles to the edge and looks down. It’s a gang.

Typical.

There aren’t a lot of guys. Looks like what he heard was a warning shot; they’re trying to scare some low-life, not quite one of their own, but close enough. He takes in the identifying clothes, marks, anything, and he reaches a conclusion well before his eyes land on the face—such as it is—of the man in charge.

Two-Face. One of the few big name villains who is both smart enough to have been a DA and dumb enough to think that he and Nightwing were the same Robin. It’s unreal how a costume, a mask, the cover of darkness, and of course, the hair, can totally alter other people’s basic senses. It’s wild that there are people who can’t see or hear a difference between an eighteen year old with years of living in safety with three squares a day and physical training and a thirteen year old with none of that.

Crazy, even.

Dent also killed Jason’s dad. And yeah, okay, Willis was an awful dad. Terrible, really. But he was still Jason’s dad, and he didn’t want him dead, just gone.

Jason’s really good at losing his parents. He’s got a lot of practice. At this point it’s not a surprise. He’s never been easy to love. Realistically, the only person he can count on is himself. It’s better that way, too; if other people end up loving him, they end up hurt. It’s the gravity of Gotham—it’s Jason’s gravity—pulling them down. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone who loves him, even if they only love him only for a short time.

Doesn’t mean he likes it. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt that no one can stick it out, stick with him.

Another gunshot shakes Jason out of his thoughts, and this one goes through the low life’s shoulder. Jason swears under his breath, irritated at getting caught up in his own self pity. He shrugs off his backpack, and digs through the pockets for his untraceable, untrackable phone. Well, mostly untraceable.

It’s a risk to use it—when it’s off, there’s no possible way to find him. As soon as he turns it on, Batman will have his current location. But if he doesn’t turn it on, Two-Face is gonna kill someone, and he doesn’t have a Batmobile, or his grapple gun, or any birdarangs or anything. All he’s got are his fists, his hoodie, and a mask, and none of those is gonna stop a bullet or bring in the baddies. So he’s gotta use the phone.

He’ll have to go fast. And he’ll have to be more careful than ever not to leave a trail.

He turns the phone on, and stares at the scene below him. “Hey, Commish,” he says, voice chirpy. A grin spreads over his face. This is what he loves doing.

“Robin?” Gordon sounds confused, on edge. Robin doesn’t care.

“I’m right near Crime Alley,” he says, “and Harv’s guys shot someone, and now they’re patching him up and playing nice, which is pretty much the definition of two-faced. His commitment to his brand is real impressive, I gotta say.”

“Robin, where are you?”

“I told you, Commish, I’m two streets south of Crime Alley. East of the Free—” Jason’s brain snags on to Gordon’s abnormal insistence. He pulls away and eyes the phone suspiciously, like it will somehow show him why Gordon sounds weird. “Anyway,” he says into the phone, “you’ll find him. He’s not exactly big on subtlety.”

“Robin, wait, Batman’s looking for you. Stay where you are, okay?”

Yeah. Right. That’s definitely a thing he’ll do.

Also, why does Gordon know what’s going on with Batman? B isn’t exactly a sharer. Still, the answer doesn’t matter enough to get caught by the big man.

Maybe Gordon can hear his thoughts, because he blurts, “I think Batman’s really worried about you, he wants—”

Jason scoffs. “Sorry, Commissioner, what Batman wants kinda stopped mattering after he tried to fire me. I’ll see ya ‘round.” He hangs up. Maybe he can get a head start for the police after all. After all, they aren’t expecting him. He puts the phone in his pocket and jumps down into the fray.

A brick to the head here, a couple of flips there, and the advantage of the element of surprise means that the five or so guys are all knocked out in short order. And Two-Face is nowhere to be seen.

Jason texts the Commissioner with that info. With any luck, Batman and Gordon will be too busy looking for Dent to bother with Jason. He takes a last look around at the rent-a-thugs littering the ground before scrambling back up to the roof to grab his backpack.

And he books it.

Rooftops, while awesome for escaping most people, are one of the worst places to be if Batman’s after you, so Jason gets to the ground as soon as he’s put some distance between himself and the thugs, though he’s close enough to hear the sirens and the officers yelling at each other.

Well, he definitely can’t hang around Crime Alley any time soon. Gordon knows where he’s been, Batman can track him up until where he turned the phone off. Guess he’ll have to give up on the easy shelter of the abandoned _everything_ around Park Row.

But _wow_. Being a hero? That’s something he can’t ever give up.

Jason straightens his shoulders; a weight slides off him, like in Pilgrim’s Progress. He’s Robin, he’s _magic_ , and if his partner doesn’t trust him, then he doesn’t need a partner. As long as Jason can be Robin without Batman, he will. And maybe Batman is right, maybe there’s no Robin without the _Batman and_ to come first, but there is still a Jason—and Jason is a hero.

Careless of whoever might be in earshot, Jason gives a big whoop and jumps onto a dumpster, pushes off the wall and flips into the air.

Let Batman come for him, Jason thinks, grinning wide, feeling like he was thirteen and had put the uniform on for the first time, ready for patrol. Let Batman try to keep him from helping people, from bringing criminals to justice. He’s ready.

Jason’s on top of the world, flipping from wall to wall, free as the bird he is—and then it starts raining.

Because of course.

Jason shakes his head, the smile still clinging to his lips. He ducks into the next alley. Time to find shelter, preferably where no one’s going to try to steal from him. But first, he’s gotta find a way to check on the Free Clinic without getting caught by Batman, Two-Face, or the police. He needs to make sure the kids made it there safe.

Jason looks around the alley to review his options. Rooftops aren’t an option; there’s no cover, and Batman will definitely be up there. If he spots Jason, it’s over. He can’t outrun or outfight the Dark Knight.

Streets aren't an option. He’s a fifteen year old in Gotham at night, and he’s not willing to lose his supplies for the week. He hasn’t figured out exactly how he wants to replenish them yet, so he can’t afford to let it get stolen. He can handle any run of the mill sickos who come at him, but guns are guns, and without any real gadgets, he’s screwed. The element of surprise works two ways. Besides, he can’t afford to draw any more attention in this area.  Two-Face and Penguin are still on the loose after the last Arkham jail break—

But Killer Croc isn’t.

Jason eyes the alley again. There are a couple junkies leaning up against the wall, some working girls over by the corner. Nobody’s paying attention to him. He backtracks, scanning the ground, looking for—

Bingo.

He pries open the manhole cover, keeping an eye on the other occupants of the alley. Too out of it to notice him, or too busy. He’s clear. He slips down into the sewer, pulling the cover back on with the ease of long training hours.

Bet Batman never thought his tricks would be used against him. _Ha_.

Jason’s got a flawless internal compass, also courtesy of Batman, so it takes him barely a second to get his bearings and head off toward the Free Clinic. It helps that he knows Gotham like he knew his own mother.

It takes him significantly longer to get used to the smell. It’s worse without the rebreather he usually uses down here.

The whole place is dank, vile. It smells like death. The air is cold but incredibly stuffy. Jason’s throat closes up, and he has to force himself to breathe the rank air before he panics or passes out.

He doesn’t move for a few seconds. He leans against the wall to steady his body while he steadies his breathing, but as soon as his shoulder makes contact with the unfortunately slimy, squishy wall, he jerks back in disgust.

Onward and upward, then, and hope he doesn’t die.

The water drips off the domed ceilings. The falling water sounds like hammer strikes to his ears. Everything looks and sounds more sinister than it really is. The skitter of rats. Jason jumps. _He forgot about Ratcatcher_ , he thinks in a panic. _What if he’s down here, what if—no, he’s in prison, too, calm the fuck down._ The echo of footsteps makes Jason spin around; is he being followed? He clenches his fists. Batman’s busy. Killer Croc and Scarecrow and Ratcatcher and almost all the nasty sewer dwelling creeps are in prison. He’s okay. He’s done this before.

The reassuring thoughts don’t stop his instincts from staying hypervigilant. It’s different, being in the sewers when he’s alone. The shadows are hiding threats, not adventures; the light at the end feels like a trap. Jason shudders. He’s gotta keep going. There’s no other option.

It doesn’t take him long to make it to where he needs to go. It always takes slightly more effort to get out of the sewers than it takes to get in, and it means he has to go a little further than the actual clinic to reach a serviceable exit. He looks up at the exit nearest to the clinic and pulls himself onto the first run of the ladder. He reaches a hand up to keep climbing but pauses, hand hovering in the air. He reconsiders.

If he gets out here, there’s a chance that Batman, if he hasn’t been distracted by Two-Face or anything else, will have figured him out and beat him to the exit.

He weighs the horror of the sewers against the possibility of capture. He pushes himself further into the dark.

Once he’s reached an acceptable distance from his destination, he clambers up the ladder. It’s been terribly mangled and twisted, and in some places, pulled completely away from the wall. The bars are rusted, wet with condensation and the nondescript, nasty slime that covers every damn thing in this literal shithole. It’s an obvious safety hazard, but it’s not easy to do municipal maintenance in a city that glories in its own destruction. Jason shakes his head and swings himself up the death trap. He balances on it while getting the cover out of the way, and as soon as fresh air reaches his nose, he pulls himself out of the sewer and onto safe ground.

Its tempting to just stay on the ground and kiss it, but realistically, this street is probably just as gross as the sewers and he hasn’t got time to waste, anyway, so instead he ducks into a shadowy nook next to a storefront.

He scans the roofs around and above him. His shoulders drop, tension leaking out of him. Batman’s nowhere in sight.

It’s as good permission as any to get back some of the time he wasted in the sewers.

He scrambles as fast as he can across the rooftops, then down to the always open door of the Free Clinic. He pauses to peek in the window. Sure enough, Gavroche and the little kid are sitting there, dry if not clean, and looking—well, maybe not hopeful— _there is no hope in Crime Alley_ rings in Jason’s head—but at least not pessimistic. Gavroche is _almost_ smiling.

Jason grins. Mission accomplished.

“Well, what do we have here,” someone says from behind him. “Are you lost, little bird?”


	4. But I'm Smiling At Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's looking for Jason. But for how long?

“You know what I think, Agent A?” Nightwing says, sitting on the edge of the Wayne Tower roof and studying the Gothic buildings below him.

“I’m certain that I’m about to find out, Master Dick,” Alfred’s voice comes through the comm clearly, dry as a desert.

“B needs therapy. Like, a lot.”

“So he has been told for the past 25 or so years, sir. He has thus far been unreceptive.”

Nightwing laughs, but there’s little humour in it. “Shocker.”

“Indeed.” There’s a pause, and then: “Has there been any sign of the young master?”

Dick winces. He runs a hand through his hair. “Apparently Riddler and Two-Face have an elaborate scheme to ‘take down the Batman’ again.” Dick rolls his eyes behind his mask. “He’s ignoring them so far, but he’s losing steam in the search. He’s been reacting more to the riddles he’s finding. Anything more serious and the scales of justice are gonna tip away from snaring J. At least for tonight.” Always has to deal with his own problems. It’s not like Riddler and Two-Face are about to blow up the city; they’re just baiting Batman, and he’s letting them, like he’s got nothing better to do.

“And Jason?” Alfred interrupts his bitter thoughts with a gentle reminder. Dick shakes himself, refocuses on why he’s out here.

“I looked, found a dumpster he’d been in, but Jason was long gone.” He sighs. “We were too late, A. Way too late.”

Silence over the line. Alfred is worried. Bruce is angry. Dick is...

And they’re all useless.

Alfred must know what he’s thinking—Dick has always thought he’s probably psychic, if not actually omniscient—because he says, “Batman has tracked down masters of stealth before, sir, and so have you. I’m certain you’ll find him.”

Dick wishes he had Alfred’s confidence.

“I have also alerted Commissioner Gordon that Batman is searching for Robin, so we’ll have the help of the police force as well, Master Dick.”

“Good thinking, A.”

A pause. “I’d have somewhat more faith in that compliment if it didn’t sound like it was dragged out of you with fish hooks, sir.”

“Sorry. I just,” Dick pauses, not sure what he’s really willing to tell Alfred. It won’t get back to Bruce, Alfred’s too discreet for that, but it’s still not fair to burden him with Dick’s stupid inability to handle his emotions.

Alfred has to deal with more than enough of that from Bruce.

“It was good thinking, A. I’m just distracted right now. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Of course, sir.” Alfred cuts the line.

Dick kicks his feet out and swings them around like a little kid. He stares out again at the city down below him. From this height, it looks beautiful. It  _ is _ beautiful, sometimes. But it’s a lie. He’s high enough to see the beauty; he’s not far enough to miss to sirens.

Or the screams.

Nightwing is swinging down, ready to beat some morals into whoever’s causing those screams. He thinks—just for a moment—that maybe it’s Jason, maybe the kid’s in trouble. But no. It’s one guy mugging another, both way too old to be Jason. Nightwing takes care of it quickly, then moves on to look for the kid that might have—maybe—been something like a kid brother to Dick. Sometimes.

It’s not that he hates Jason, it isn’t. It’s just...

Sometimes he hates Jason.

And he gets that it’s petty, he does, but it’s Bruce’s fault. He didn’t ask, just handed over his uniform to some snot-nosed brat with attitude problems and a compromised moral compass who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing or why. All that  _ after _ trying to manipulate him, to control him, to take away Robin and prevent Nightwing.

Dick growls, still incensed at how Bruce treated him, even years later. And Jason! Jason didn’t make it easier. He was, and still is, such a total brat that Dick doesn’t know how he can ever be trusted to follow orders. He’s dangerous, and if Dick ever made the mistake of doubting that, of thinking this little boy could be a brother to him, he realized his mistake when Jason pushed a man off a roof to his death.

Dick holds to that opinion. He’s been right this whole time, and he shouldn’t have second guessed himself. Bruce picked up a pseudo-Robin to get back at him, and he chose wrong, and now they have to deal with this mess.

The only thing is...

He taught Jason, once, how to use the trapeze. He  _ wanted _ to share that with him, share something that belonged to the Flying Graysons; maybe add a Flying Todd. And he knows, he  _ knows _ Jason’s heard some of the things Bruce and Dick have said, things like “You’re just trying to get back at me,” and “I found myself suddenly lacking a partner,” and “He’s not  _ Robin, _ ” and “The short pants don’t make the man,” and “Batman doesn’t need Nightwing anymore than he needed Robin.” Things they say to hurt each other; things that hurt Jason instead.

If Dick had been a better brother, if he had been consistent, if—

No. It would have been the same. This is Bruce’s screw up, and Dick’s going along because he wants to make sure Jason doesn’t turn into some kind of vengeful murderer. That’s it. Dick is helping pick up the pieces.

This was not his fault, and he’ll be damned if he lets Bruce use this as leverage. He swings silently over Gotham and breaks up a few more petty crimes that Batman’s ignored before he’s had enough. He lands on top of the bank in Chinatown. There’s chaos in the city because Batman won’t break it up, too busy searching for his failed project.

“This was pretty good  _ bad _ idea, B,” he mutters into the darkness. “A,” he says, reaching the butler with his comm, “listen, Tweety Number Two’s flown the coop. I can’t—” he cuts himself off. Damn, he feels guilty, but it’s got to be done. “I have responsibilities in Blüdhaven now. I wish I could help find our Roadrunner, but I’m the Haven’s only hero, A, and—”

“It’s quite alright, Master Dick,” Alfred says softly in his ear. Dick flinches. Alfred’s not mad, or disappointed, or anything.

He’s just miserable.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. Can’t bring himself to snark, not when Alfred sounds like that.

Damn Jason, anyway.

 

Batman speeds through the night. To anyone who manages to catch a glimpse of him, he looks like he might on any other night: a single minded focus controls his movements, he does not turn to the right or to the left, and he disappears before you can be sure you’ve really seen him.

But tonight— _ tonight _ —everything is different. Tonight it isn’t justice that fuels the Bat’s movements; it’s worry. He isn’t angry, he isn’t on a case, but he  _ is _ chasing someone.

Well that’s interesting.

He’s not even paying attention to his surroundings. It’s shockingly—and  _ maybe _ a little worryingly—easy to sneak up on him and reach out, touch his shoulder.

He reacts then, lashes out brutally. She dances back out of reach.

“What do you want, Cat?” He sounds almost normal. _Very_ growly.

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”

Batman turns away, dismissing her. That won’t do.

“Where’s your little bird, Batman?” She purrs, and he...he stiffens. Not like most people would notice, but she likes to think she knows him a little better than most people. He shifts just a little, muscles tense like he’s about to fight; his face doesn’t move.

“I’m busy.”

“Oh, yes, I can see that, you’re very busily ignoring the gunshots coming from Crime Alley.” Batman turns and glares at her through his little white slits. She smiles beatifically. He opens his mouth, but something in his belt starts beeping. He fishes out a little device with a flashing red light. He looks at it for just a little bit too long, and then he disappears.

Or well, he tries to, the dear. But she was expecting it, and he’s a little off his game tonight.

She follows discreetly, sees him land on a rooftop above a gaggle of police officers and start scanning it, completely ignoring her. Or he’s genuinely unaware of her presence, which normally she wouldn’t consider, but the Bat is acting very unlike himself today.

“Batman,” one of the cops calls up, “Two-Face was here, he got away. Robin called it in.” Batman straightens up. Holds himself very still for a minute.

“Turns out Two-Face is planning something.” the officer says. “We thought he might have gone to find you.” Batman’s clenched jaw makes an appearance, but that hyperawareness has faded. He looks like he usually does, if excessively tense.

“Hn,” Batman says, and this time, when he disappears, she lets him go.

She has other things to do.

She eavesdrops on the officers for a little bit. She hears snatches of, “Commissioner wants Robin brought in,” “Disappeared right before we got here,” “Swear that kid can fly,” and she puts a thing or two together.

The little bird left the nest. It’s up to her to find him, since Batman will clearly be insufferable until he’s found.

And...

She may have a certain fondness for Robin, with his Inner Gotham accent and his charming mix of cynicism and naivete.

If Batman’s looking for Dent that way and hoping for a chance encounter...

She turns to her right. Off to hunt for a little bird.

She may not be the World’s Greatest Detective, but she knows how to play cat and mouse better than most. Besides that, she knows how street kids think. Especially when they’re trying to avoid Batman.

_ He _ is tracking down the boy while thinking of him as a cross between the bird he trained and a supervillain who’s evading him

She will track him down by knowing he’s going to return to his roots; by knowing that he’s got to survive somehow, and she has experience surviving these streets.

He was near here. Time to ask around.

The girls are more than happy to tell her about the kid they saw; they trust her, they know she looks out for them. Most of them didn’t notice anything, but one of them, a young little thing, too young for this life—she saw the boy drop down a manhole.

Selina sighs. Time to try to corner a Bat in its home territory.

She’s as quiet as she can be. The only good thing about Gotham’s literal filthy underbelly is how clearly footprints show up in the muck. It’s easy enough to follow the birdie’s trail.

_ Clang! _ The distinctive sound of a manhole being dropped rings through the sewer, and Selina picks up the pace. She’s close!

She reaches the exit and scrambles out.

_ There _ .

He’s so cute, small, and absolutely covered in dirt. Poor thing, staring through the window of the Free clinic, looking like he’s about to start pawing at the window.

She saunters up behind him. “Well, what do we have here? Are you lost, little bird?”

Robin kicks as he spins, lashing out with all the strength in his body. His foot is caught and twisted, and he moves with it, landing solidly.

“Calm down, kitten,” Catwoman smirks lightly, holding her hands up in ostensible surrender.

Robin doesn’t let down his guard. “What do you want, Selina?”

“Why, Jason,” she says, holding a hand to her chest melodramatically, “I heard Batman had a stray, and I wanted to help.”

She looks him up and down, trying to see through the layers of dirt; Jason shifts his stance. He’s clearly gearing up to tell her to go fuck herself when she continues, “Although, I have to say that your choice of outfit is a bit of a surprise, Robin.”

Jason laughs, and it’s a hard sound, joyless. He sounds like he’s just witnessed a murder. “You’re behind on the times, Cat. I’m a free man.”

Understanding immediately, Selina straightens up. “Stay here,” she growls. “I’m going to go knock some—”

“No,” Jason yells, grabbing her hand and pulling. Selina looks down at his curly head. He’s so little. He doesn’t deserve this.

What was Bruce  _ thinking _ ?

“You can’t tell him,” he begs. “I’m not going back to him, I won’t.”

“Okay, kitten,” she says, running her free hand over his head. She slips back into her natural accent, always more easily accessible when speaking with this little ray of light from Park Row. “Okay. But you gotta go somewhere.”

“I can handle myself,” the little boy mutters, and her heart breaks for him.”

“You don’t have to. You know me, Jason, I ain’t gonna snitch. Anyways, I can hide you from the Bat better than you can hide on your own. He won’t look for you with me,” she declares.

He’s still hesitating, distrustful. One final push. “I gotta library and a chocolate fondue fountain.” His eyes widen, and then he crosses his arms to cover it up. Kiddo’s not as smooth as he thinks he is. His eyes are still sparkling with interest.

She’s got him. The rest is semantics.

“I don’t take charity,” he warns. “And I won’t steal. I’m not gonna help you.”

“That’s fine, kitten. We’ll figure out how you can repay me later. A negotiation.”

Jason eyes her suspiciously. “Just one night,” he says, “’til I figure out where to go from here.”

Selina nods. “Sure.”

“And I’ll hack B’s accounts to donate to all the animal shelters in Jersey. He won’t notice for a couple days, probl’y, and Batgirl—” He cuts himself off sharply. “That’ll be payment. We good?”

Selina nods. “We’re good.” She extends a hand.

He takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late everybody, I spent Monday locked in a bathroom having a panic attack and then sleeping so no update then. Also, I'll be really busy for the next two weeks. This story should keep coming on schedule, but if it's not, have no fear. It's coming along, getting done, just might slow down.  
> Also, I only know Selina tangentially (and congratulations to everyone who guessed it! I'll have to be more mysterious next time) so feedback on how to write her better would be very much appreciated!  
> For other updates, visit my tumblr!


	5. When I Woke Up Alone I Had Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Crime Alley kids with a connection to Batman walk into a penthouse.
> 
> What could possibly go wrong?

 Jason is on high alert as he steps into the penthouse. He doesn’t trust Selina. She’s a criminal, sure, but more than that, everyone knows she has her _thing_ with Bruce.

What he doesn’t know is if that’s more important than her word or not.

He eyes the classy, modern hallway and can’t help but feeling like he’s made a terrible mistake.

Selina is already sitting on the couch—Jason let her go in first, didn’t want to leave his back to her. There’s an old cat on her lap. Its ear has been mauled off; one of its eyes is scarred over; overall, it’s a mangy looking thing. Jason makes eye contact with it. It hisses.

The corners of Jason’s lips tug up. Asshole cat. He’ll call it Bruce.

“Be nice,” Selina admonishes, and Jason’s not sure if she’s talking to the cat, or if she’s just read his mind or what. The smile on her face seems to belie her words.

“So, little bird,” she says, scratching cat-Bruce’s ears, “food, sleep, or conversation?”

“Food,” Jason says. If he has to leave in a hurry, it’s best to stock up on supplies now.

“Go ahead,” Selina says, gesturing wide and dramatically toward a hallway. “The kitchen’s that way. Grab what you want. _Mi àtico es su_ _àtico_.”

Jason’s lips twitch, and he heads away from her, swinging his backpack off his back and holding it in front of him. Just as soon as he gets out of Selina’s sight, he checks the backpack, verifying that his books and supplies are still there.

All present and accounted for. Jason sighs in relief. It isn’t really that he thought Selina would steal from him—he doesn’t even have any jewelry, or cat-related statuary—it’s just better to be on his guard. He zips up the bag and starts walking toward the kitchen. He’s barely taken two steps when he feels something tug at his shoe.

He looks down, and a tiny tabby cat has his undone shoelace between its teeth. It’s batting at his shoe; its little nose is all scrunched up. The cat is all of five inches long, fluffy as one of Bruce’s pillows, and trying with every muscle in its body to look vicious.

Irresistible. He leans down and scoops up the cat, who bats at Jason’s chest in retaliation before deciding to explore his kidnapper. The kitty clambers up his arm, tiny pinpricks from tiny claws appearing on his skin. Jason stops moving for a second, leans slightly forward. The kitty tries to attack Jason’s hair and almost slips off his neck.

Jason’s having none of that. He leans further forward, grabs the cat, and settles it firmly on his left shoulder. Thankfully, the kitten gets comfortable quick.

Jason grins. Success!

He takes a few moments to pet the loudly purring cat.

And then his stomach growls.

 _Oh right_. The kitchen. Jason refocuses on his goal, with an addendum; walking to the kitchen, keeping the cat comfortable.

He’s taken barely five steps when he runs into three more cats. One is missing a leg. The other two are calicos, one a kitten and one fully grown, and Jason just _has_ to stop and pet them, they’re all so cute.

Only he forgets to get back up, so when Selina pops her head around the corner, Jason’s on his back with tiny cats crawling all over him and one curled up on his neck sleeping.

He freezes. He _could_ defend himself with a weak “I can explain...”

Or he can ignore her.

It takes him less than a second to choose.

He ignores her laugh as she passes by, tries to ignore the hand ruffling his curls, fails to ignore her angry old Bruce-cat who hisses at him _again_ so he hisses right back.

And he thought ignoring her would be the less embarrassing option.

What the hell, he thinks, and keeps playing with the cats

Selina comes back a few minutes later, holding plates full of of salad and fish. “I recognize that it’s heavy for a midnight snack,” she says, smiling, “but with a nightlife like ours, regular meal times don’t mean much.”

Jason sits up slowly, cradling the sleeping kitty. The other cats tumble off in a flurry of fur and claws, and disperse, chasing each other out of the hallway

Selina sits down on the floor, leather catsuit and all, hands him a plate, and starts demolishing her own.

Jason stares at his plate suspiciously. Selina reaches over and spears lettuce and salmon from his plate in one go.

It’s not proof, especially not from someone like her. She could rob anyone blind even when they can see both her hands. He puts the fork down, quietly. His stomach growls, but he ignores it and brings a hand up to his mouth instead. He gnaws on his thumbnail, sanding it down.

The silence is stifling, broken only by the sound of a fork scraping ceramic. Jason can’t take it anymore. “Why are you doing this?” He hisses—intent and angry, but still quiet. Agitated, Jason rips his hand from his mouth, leaving a thin trail of blood on his thumb, and shoots to his feet. Selina looks a little surprised by the abrupt and wild break in the quiet, but she just keeps chewing, mostly unruffled.

She swallows. “Doing what?”

“ _Everything_! Giving me food, showing me your stuff, hiding me from Bruce. What do you get out of it, huh?”

Selina shakes her head a little. “You’re Gotham through and through, kid,” she says. Jason narrows his eyes and doesn’t back down. She sighs loudly, and Jason gets the feeling that she’s resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Chill out, mini bat. What’s really bugging you?”

Jason looks away. They sit in silence, again. Jason sticks his bleeding thumb into his mouth.

Selina changes tacks. “What I get out of it, Jason, is making sure a kid who got out doesn’t go back in.” She eyes him carefully. “You made it out, Jason. You have the luxury of morals, of being able to help.”

Jason flinches. “I didn’t get out, though,” he mutters. “Bruce...he took me out. I didn’t _do_ anything. I don’t deserve any more than any other kid out there.”

Selina hums. “Maybe not, but you did more when you got out than most would. And that wasn’t Bruce, kitten. That was all you, your choices. And I’m not going to let your choices get taken away from you. I know what it’s like.”

Jason watches as Selina gets up, brushes invisible dirt off her thighs, and picks up her empty plate. She’s halfway to the kitchen when she turns around. “Stay. Or don’t. Go back to Bruce. Or don’t. I won’t make you do anything, Jason. You call the shots when it comes to your life.”

“Damn right I do,” mutters Jason, arms still crossed but feeling the tension drain out of shoulders minutely. He eyes the plate in front of him again, a little more kindly than he did before. He picks up the fork and dives in, shoveling the food into his mouth.

The plate is empty in very short order. He stands up with the three-legged kitten in one hand, his backpack over his arm, and the plate in his other hand, walking the path Selina just took. “So, how ‘bout that library?”

Later, when they’re curled up in her library with blankets, hot chocolate, and big thick books, when Selina’s changed into pyjamas and Jason’s wearing a shirt that goes all the way to his knees, when Jason feels almost alright for the first time since he heard the name ‘Felipe Garzonas,’ he makes a decision.

“Selina?”

“Hm?”

“What do you know about,” Jason hesitates. He takes a breath and continues haltingly, “about what happened with B?”

“Not much, _petirrojo_. I didn’t even know there was a problem until earlier when I saw him ripping through Gotham like a tornado.”

Jason chews on his lip. He really should keep this to himself, at least until he’s slept. Or at least until sunrise.

But it wouldn’t be fair to her.

 _Fuck_ , he doesn’t want to do this.

“I—he thinks I killed someone,” Jason blurts, muscles tensing. Whatever happens, he’s not going down without a fight.

“Did you?”

Jason bristles by habit. “ _No_ ,” he growls. Selina just cocks an eyebrow. He deflates. She isn’t Bruce. She isn’t mad. She’s listening. “He fell. But,” he hesitates, then drops his head, staring at the cat on his lap, “I could have caught him. And I didn’t.” The dam breaks, and the confession comes spilling out of him in a torrential downpour, defensive but pleading. “And he deserved to die! Even if I _had_ pushed him, he would have deserved it, because he _hurt_ her and she killed herself because of it and he would have done it again and I didn’t kill him but I’m glad he’s dead, I’m _glad_!”

Somewhere during his outburst Selina had stood up. Jason closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see her leave, then forces his eyes open in case she decides to do something else.

Like call the Bat.

Like take him in herself.

He looks up at her—and he’s on the ground, when did that happen? Jason gets to his feet, ready to fight, and Selina gets close and grabs him. He flinches and pulls his fist back, but stops cold when she bends down and pulls his head against her collarbone.

Either she’s lost all her fighting skill or this isn’t a takedown.

Jason blinks, confused. Selina’s hand comes up and leaves his line of sight. He feels it rub over his curly hair a few seconds later. She shushes him gently, the other arm loose around his shoulders, holding him closely but not tightly.

This is a _hug_.

Jason slams his eyes shut, but the tears leak out anyway. They sink down, slowly and surely, until Selina’s on the ground and Jason is crying into her lap.

“It’s okay, Jason. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jason hiccups. “He s—Batman said—”

“Batman can be _wrong,_ Jason, and he’s wrong now.” Selina’s voice is strained, like she’s holding herself back from shouting. He peeks up at her and her jaw is clenched. “Listen, little bird, you were right. You know that some people deserve to die.”

“But you don’t kill.”

“Neither did you.”

Silence reigns, broken only by Jason’s hiccuping sobs as he fights to pull himself back together—but it’s late, and he feels safe for the first time in days, and Bruce kicked him out and it’s all too much.

He lets himself cry.

When the tears have dried on his cheeks and his sobs have softened to soft pants, he feels Selina shift and pull on his arm. Jason stands with the tug, lets her haul him up to the couch. It’s not especially gentle, but it gets them there.

They stay for minutes or hours, neither of them aware of the passage of time. Finally, with cat-Bruce curled up next to Selina and the three-legged kitten nestled on his chest, Jason speaks. “Selina?”

She hums in response.

“Do you think—” he cuts himself off sharply, then starts over. “I wanna blame him. For...for all of it. For what he said, and f-firing me, and everything else, too, but like...” He trails off and closes his eyes. He sniffs and rubs his nose with the sleeve of his shirt—or her shirt, actually—then winces.

Alfred would have scolded him for that—using a sleeve to wipe his snot, and it’s not even his own shirt—and got him a handkerchief.

Alfred’s not here. He’s never gonna be with Jason again.

“Look, it can’t be all B’s fault, right? It’s gotta be me. Takes two to tango, right, that’s what they say. So it has to be me, too. Even if I didn’t,” he stutters over the next words, “kill Garzonas, I was still—I wasn’t—I wasn’t good enough, or I was an asshole, or _something_ , right?”

Selina just looks at him.

" _R_ _ight_?” He demands desperately, almost like a plea.

Selina rolls her eyes at him, a little, and just pulls him into another hug. “None of this was your fault, kitten. You didn’t do anything wrong. His bad bad behaviour is not on you, you hear me?” She gives him a light shake. “It’s on him. It’s all on him, and you don’t have to just rely on him anymore, get it? You got me, now, _petirrojo_. You’re a damn good superhero. Even when you’re being a pain in my ass.” She smiles at him and pinches his cheek. He swats at her while a tiny smile creeps over his face.

Jason nods and the smile blossoms into a grin. “With or without B. I’m a _damn_ good superhero. Just like—” He cuts himself off, the grin dimming but still present. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, kiddo.” Selina doesn’t push and Jason appreciates it. She’s good at not pushing.

Well, sometimes she is. Depending.

Not with Bruce.

Jason opens his mouth to say something, and it opens wider and wider into a yawn. He laughs through it. “I’m gonna go to bed, now,” he says, confident, though the look he shoots at her after belies his certainty.

“The guest bedroom is down the hall,” Selina says. Jason starts to walk, still holding the cat, and pauses when Selina calls after him. “Remember, kitten—It’s all on him. That guilt isn’t yours, little bird.”

And Jason smiles, big and bright. He darts over and kisses her cheek.

“‘Night, S,” he calls, a hint of laughter in his voice, and leaps back down the hall.

Tomorrow he’s gonna be starting a whole new chapter.

 

Jason sleeps curled up in a ball around his bag, hands clasped over his shoulders, knees tucked up to his chest.

Selina’s mouth curls up into a grin. It’s a familiar way of sleeping; she does it every night.

His mouth is hanging open; he’s drooling a little. His still-damp hair is starting to curl on the side of his head that isn’t mashed into his pillow. Sylvester, her little three-legged cat, is curled up on his chest, purring so loudly it almost sounds like snoring.

All in all, it’s a sight that would melt the hardest of hearts.

And speaking of Batman, she’s still got to find a way to give him a piece of her mind without giving up the fact that there’s a little boy sleeping on her couch that Batman is desperate to find.

Selina scowls. She loves him, really, but he can be such an ass, and he clearly hasn’t learned from his mistakes with the first bird. And Jason is suffering for it.

She always forgets that he’s a teenager, a fifteen-year-old. He seems so much younger. He’s small, like her—a side-effect of growing up without enough food—but more than that, there’s something about him that seems so vulnerable to her. He’s a tough little guy, but he so desperately wants to do the right thing that he’ll hurt himself trying to help. And Bruce is not a role model for healthy living or healthy morals.

Someone has to protect Jason.

Selina is more than willing to do it.

She brushes a hand over his curls with a smile, then turns to go to her own bed. It’s not late by Bat standards, but it’s late enough for her.

Just as she’s stepped over the threshold, she hears a whimper and turns back.

Jason’s face is screwed up in something approximating pain. He’s curled in tighter to himself somehow. She sees indents on his skin where his nails are digging in, and his teeth are clenched. Distressed noises escape him, and there are tears collecting on his eyelashes, despite how tightly his eyes are clamped shut.

“Babs,” he whispers, cracked and anguished. Then, “ _Bruce_.”

Selina’s by his side in a second, but just as she reaches out, Jason cries out. “I’m sorry!” And Selina freezes. The anguished sounds keep escaping him, and she finds she can’t move, even as Jason begs for forgiveness.

It’s only when a whispered, “Bruce, _please_ ,” escapes him that she snaps and shakes him awake roughly.

Jason snaps out with a leg, immediately alert with Bat-paranoia. Selina moves back quickly. “It’s okay, little bird, you’re safe. Jason, you’re _safe_.”

Jason blinks at her. His solid fighting stance wavers for a second. Then he turns and opens the window, and before she can blink, he’s gone. From the penthouse. 50 stories up.

Selina shakes her head. _Like father, like son._ She goes to close the window, then pauses.

“You know you’re welcome back anytime, kitten. We can put off payment until you decide it’s time to go for good.” With that she shuts the window and turns back.

A shadow moves across the room. She turns around.

There’s a smiley face and a messy “R” scrawled in the condensation on her window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da?
> 
> Here you go, enjoy, sorry bout Selina, I did my best.
> 
> Thanks so much to Breezy_Fiction and onceuponymous who were both incredibly encouraging when I was really struggling with this chapter. You are excellent people.


	6. I'm Flesh and Bone, I'm a Rolling Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is continuing his journey of discovering himself and others away from Bruce.  
> Or, Jason is settling into the penthouse and into himself.

Staying at Selina’s is the best choice Jason’s made in the last year, probably. She’s not the type to coddle, so she doesn’t care that some nights he stays out, or that he sleeps all day. Honestly, she treats him kind of the same way she treats her foster cats. She lets him make his own food and they mostly stay out of each other’s way whenever they’re in the penthouse at the same time, except for their late night library sessions.

After the first night, he had admitted to her that he’d never really thought of her as a reader.

Selina had just looked amused. “People can be two things, kitten,” she’d said to him.

He’d squinted at her suspiciously.

Her lips twitched. “And if my books all happen to be first editions and antiques, well. Certain hobbies do come first.”

“At least they’re not all about cats.”

Selina had laughed and that had been their last discussion about it.

It’s nice to have time to just sit and read, if he wants to. It’s been a while since he can just decide to stay in without feeling like he’s letting Gotham down, because no matter what Bruce says when he’s feeling generous, if he’s not sick or injured, Batman doesn’t miss patrol. So, of course, neither does Robin.

But now, _now_ he doesn’t have an obligation to watch Batman’s back. He goes out and helps as much as he can, but it’s not—it’s not the only thing in his life anymore.

He misses school, though.

Education isn’t exactly part of life on the lam, but they were about to start _Persuasion_ and he had _thoughts_ he wanted to share which were particularly relevant to him.

Thankfully, Selina is an avid listener and an active participant in their library sessions.

“And when she leaves, she kinda looks back and she thinks,” Jason looks down at the book open his arms and reads. “‘Scenes had passed in _Uppercross_ ,’” Jason pauses to give her a significant look, “‘which made it precious. It stood the record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could never be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear. She left it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had been.’” Jason looks up, bites his upper lip to try to contain his grin. “Isn’t that _awesome_?”

Selina answers his grin with one of her own. “But Anne didn’t have to leave. She could’ve stayed if she wanted.”

“Yeah, but it was still sad, you know? Like, she still _had_ to leave, even if no one actually made her. It was time.”

“Fair enough,” Selina says. She’s still smiling, but she raises her eyebrows with a knowing look. Her “you ain’t slick, pal” look. Jason is very familiar with it at this point. She stretches and leans back. He keeps reading.

It’s a nice place to come back to for the night. It’s not home (something in his heart whispers that home is out of his reach for good now) but it’s safe, and Selina’s amazing. When they aren’t reading, they’ve taken to speaking exclusively in Spanish. Jason’s out of practice—he hasn’t spoken Spanish since his mom died. It’s nice to hear it and speak it again.

Still, he’s kinda waiting for the day she gets tired of him and he’s gotta find somewhere else to go, so he’s been finding some legit places to set up safe houses in the city. Honestly, as long as Selina’s not complaining, neither is he.

But as much as he likes the penthouse, it’s even better when they get out on the streets because—and just thinking it makes Jason grin because Bruce would straight up flip out if he knew—for the past couple weeks, they’ve been kicking _ass_ together.

And Jason normally wouldn’t be too pleased about having his shoulder looked over _again_ —he can handle some gangbangers without help, thank you very much—except she that’s not what she’s doing. He does his thing, and she does hers, but every now and then they handle some big groups together, and she’s not shy about lending him some weapons.

He’s got no problem taking the stuff she’s pilfered from Batman. He _is_ a little iffy but okay with using some of her spare armour (because she’s not going around springing traps on the regular and occasionally getting into fights without protection, okay, she’s not _stupid_ ) even though it’s a clingy and there’s not enough colour and it’s not his style; but he absolutely one hundred percent draws the line at using _whips_.

“I won’t and you can’t make me,” he snaps when she tries—for the third time—to force her tacky and mostly useless weapons on him.

“Would you just take it,” she says back, exasperated. “Your little toys are gonna be useless if you start going up against heavy-hitters again, okay? So just,” she shoves her stuff at him, “take them, you little brat.”

“Over my dead body.”

“It will be if you don’t take them!”

They argue in circles for ages, and Jason tries, he really does, but in the end he can’t say no to some upgrades. “Fine, I’ll take your dumb stuff.” Selina starts to hand him everything and he backtracks quickly, “No whips!”

“Coño,” she mutters.

Jason’s eyebrows snap toward each other. “Watch your fucking language,” escapes his mouth before he clamps it shut.

Is that how Alfred feels when Jason talks?

He tries to fix it. “I mean, that was uncalled for.”

Nope. Still embarrassing.

Selina screws up her face in a sort of bewildered confusion. It’s incredibly unflattering and Jason takes a break from wishing he could sink into the floor to wish he could take a picture.

Selina looks at him for a while longer before her face smooths back out and she laughs lightly. “Alright, _petirrojo_. It bothers you, I don’t use it.”

Jason squirms for a second, uncomfortable, before muttering his thanks and changing the subject back to the weapons as quick as he can possibly swing it.

He still puts his foot down about the whips though.

Selina lives with it, probably happy knowing that at least now he won’t die if he goes up against anything worse than a coupla muggers.

It’s nice, though. There’s a totally different vibe working with Catwoman than with Batman. With the big guy, there was this sense of power, like you were untouchable. It was awesome, and heady, but there was also the sense that you were always on your best behaviour. If Jason made mistakes, even if Bruce didn’t always say something about it, training always increased so he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Or at least that was the goal. Jason made plenty of mistakes over and over. But hey. At least he owned it.

With Selina, though, he’s in a totally different position. He’s gotta be sneaky. His backup is no longer a human tank with what’s basically a military base waiting for him at home. Selina’s definitely helped him learn subtlety, which wasn’t always really important before. He’s less of a distraction now, more of a hard hitter. He’s not being held back or criticized. He still gets to make his quips and his puns, but he doesn’t _have_ to be Robin-the-cute-one anymore. Now he’s just Robin. Vigilante. Solo hero.

It’s the best thing he’s ever experienced.

And if he hits drug dealers and rapists a little harder than before, well.

He’s his own supervisor now.

He’s out on patrol tonight, and he and Selina have parted ways. He doesn’t know what she’s gonna be doing, but if it doesn’t involve him and she makes sure no one gets hurt, he doesn’t much care.

He’s a Gotham kid. He’s no thief but he’s no snitch either. He’s keeping his nose clean and out of any business but his own.

And his own business happens to involve an asshole dealer who’s selling to a kid who looks no more than twelve.

Jason’s lip curls and he drops down from the shadows.

The kid’s off and running down the street as soon as he catches sight of Jason, but by then it’s way too late for the drug dealer, who’s been hit at least three times already.

And Jason’s just getting warmed up.

The fury in Jason’s chest is shooting out through his fists, and the impact of his hands on the scumbag’s face fills him with euphoria.

 _This_ is what they deserve.

Jason’s rearing back for a final hit when he hears a gasp behind him.

“ _Robin_?”

And Jason freezes.

Most people, since the costume changed, haven’t recognized him or really had the chance to give him a name.

And those who did called him Catlad.

Ugh.

But because of that, just hearing the name Robin is enough to catch his attention.

He delivers one final hit to KO the guy he’s dealing with, then he turns to face whoever recognized him.

He’s kind of underwhelmed but not surprised to see that it’s a kid, probably just about thirteen years old.

He _is_ surprised to see that the kid is wearing the preppiest clothes this part of Gotham has ever seen outside some charity event. He hasn’t got a single hair out of place, he’s wearing a _sweater vest_ , for Pete’s sake, and his shoes look like they get polished twice a day.

He looks like he belongs in one of Bruce’s galas, not an alley in the Bowery.

“Robin, oh my gosh, I was so worried!” The kid rushes over to him. “I thought you were hurt or something, no one’s seen you in weeks.”

“Thanks, kid—”

“Tim.”

“What?”

“My name’s Tim. Drake, Tim Drake.”

Jason snorts a little, relaxing his guard a little in spite of himself. “Thanks, _kid_ ,” he repeats with a little smirk. “And hey, listen, don’t worry about us bats, okay? We regenerate.”

Tim smiles back, a little uncertainly, before glancing in the alley. Jason pulls out his grapnel, but Tim grabs his arm before he can head off. “You hit him awfully hard,” he says. “Should we call an ambulance?”

“He’ll be fine. The cops’ll show up, he’ll wake up and remember why it’s a stupid idea to deal to goddamn children.”

“But what if he doesn’t wake up?”

Jason bristles. He’s sick and tired of being accused of murder.

It’s a sensitive area now, okay?

“I didn’t hit him _that_ hard,” Jason snaps at him. “He’ll be fine. Now get your ass home before someone decides they like the look of that Rolex on your skinny little wrist, okay?”

Instead of wilting like he expected him to, the kid stands up straighter and his jaw squares.

As much as a jaw _can_ square on a prepubescent face, anyway.

“What are you _doing_ , Robin?” the kid demands, like he has any right to know. “You’re not supposed to beat down on criminals like this. Since when does Batman let you—”

“Batman doesn’t _let me_ do anything, okay, let’s get that straight,” Jason growls. “He’s not my boss and he never was. He does his thing and I do mine. Criminal gets jailed, justice gets served. The end.” He fires his grapnel gun, but before he leaves, a little hand grabs his arm again.

“ _Jason_ ,” the kid hisses, and Jason almost falls over from shock.

He grabs Tim’s arm and swings up to the roof. “What did you call me.”

“Jason Todd,” Tim says, breathless, “Robin; Dick Grayson, Nightwing; Bru—” Jason claps a hand roughly over the little psychic’s too-big yap.

“No need to literally shout it from the rooftops, moron, I get the picture,” he whispers intently, looking around.

Bat-paranoia stays with you.

“Sorry,” the kid whispers back.

Jason groans, slapping a hand against his masked head. Bruce is gonna be furious if he finds out.

Then again, screw Bruce.

He refocuses on the kid who knows way too much. There’s no point trying to bluff. Tim’s one hundred percent sure about their identities, Jason can tell. And anyway, Jason kind of blew the chance at denial with his reaction. “Alright. What do you want?”

Tim’s eyes widen. “Nothing,” he stutters, “nothing, I swear, I’m not trying to blackmail you or anything—”

“Relax, kid,” Jason says. He rolls his eyes, shifts his weight onto his back leg. Jeez, this kid is jittery. “I didn’t ask what you _don’t_ want to do. You called me by name to make me stay. Why? What do you want?”

Tim pauses, looking a little taken aback at not having to justify himself, before he launches right into a speech. “Batman’s been acting weird the last few weeks. He’s distracted, he’s ignoring stuff happening almost under his nose, and he disappeared almost a week ago. I was worried it might have to do with you, but you’re not hurt, so all I can think is something’s wrong with Batman.” He pauses to take a breath, looking a little desperate. “What’s going on?”

“Maybe he ate some garlic bread and he’s in a cave somewhere drinking blood and hiding from the sun.”

Tim looks decidedly unimpressed.

Tough crowd.

Jason continues, “Honestly, I couldn’t tell ya, kid. Batman wasn’t exactly forthcoming when I lived with him, and I ain’t seen him in a while.”

Tim’s eyes about pop out of his head. “You _quit_?”

“No need to sound so horrified. It was more of a parting of the ways, to be honest.”

“Well, that’s the answer!” Tim throws up his hands in the air. He sounds excited and relieved. Jason is suspicious of where he’s going with this. “That’s what he’s been worried about. All you have to do is go back and everything—”

“Go _back_?” Jason says. “I’m never going back.” Tim looks appalled. Jason continues. “Batman and me? We’re done. I’ve moved on, I’m good without him, he’s good without me.”

“But he’s _not_ good without you,” Tim contradicts him, gesticulating wildly. “Batman needs Robin, he’s no good without you to keep him focused and make him see the brightness in the world and—”

“Batman needs a Robin?” Jason echoes incredulously. “Not everything revolves around the big bad bat, you know. He’s a grown ass man.” Jason snorts shakes his head. “‘Batman needs a Robin.’ What about what Robin needs, huh?”

“Robin needs to stop crime with Batman.”

Jason rolls his eyes and walks over to the edge of the roof. “What do you call that, then, a tea party?” He gestures in the direction of the alley they came from. “I’m stopping crime just fine without Batman.”

Tim shakes his head, looking confused. Or maybe just frustrated.

Jason sighs. “Listen, Tim, you’re a good kid. Okay? You’re obviously brave and all, wandering around the Bowery dressed like that _that_.” He flaps his hands to encompass all of Tim’s appearance. “But you don’t know me, and you don’t know Batman. There’s no going back for me. I can’t, even if I wanted to—which,” he adds, “for the record, I do not. Batman trained me, and that’s great. I’m glad he did. But he doesn’t need me anymore, and I don’t need him in order to be a hero. Nightwing didn’t either.” Jason takes a breath. “I’m not playing support anymore.”

Tim is shaking his head. “But. You don’t understand.” He sounds on the verge of tears, frustrated that he can’t get his message across. When he speaks, it sounds rehearsed but hesitant, like a half-prepared speech. “Batman needs—”

Jason cuts him off with a sigh. “Maybe he does,” he concedes, “but it can’t be me.” Tim looks heartbroken, so Jason gives him a nudge on the shoulder. “Don’t look so glum, kid. Hey—maybe you could be my replacement.”

Tim’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with shock. Jason catches a glimmer in his eyes like hope—like a dream coming true—before pointing to the roof access hatch. “It’s unlocked, kid. Head down, call a cab, for heaven’s sake don’t walk home.”

And with that, he’s shooting off into the night, Robin on patrol, fighting crime.

Justice and Justification in one night. Jason grins.

Not a bad night’s work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selina is canonically Cuban; in Cuba, "coño" is a very minor swear. I headcanon Jason as Venezuelan; in Venezuela, the swear is more serious. I like to think it was something his mom told him was never appropriate to use when he was young and it just stuck with him.  
> Tim is very caught off guard and underprepared here; timeline-wise, Bruce has just left the country in pursuit of the Joker, so Tim is several months behind where he is in "Lonely Place of Dying", hence him being a bit of a broken record when faced with his hero.
> 
> Thank you everybody for your amazing support! I appreciate all the comments and the kudos, and I pore over them all the time. You're all so sweet and encouraging. <3 I apologize for the slow speed of chapters, but I'm so grateful to you all for sticking with me. Hope you enjoyed the chapter of italics and headcanons!


	7. Choke On Your Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a month since Jason's been out on his own.
> 
> It's going pretty well.

Jason puts his fist into another goon’s face and vaults away from the one behind him. He’s been keeping them on the run for ages, these two, got them jumping at shadows. It’s hilarious.

They deserve to feel afraid, like the kids they hurt feel afraid. Jason ducks under the baseball bat swung at his head, grabs it, and yanks. The mook stumbles, off-balance, and Jason grins, ramming his foot into the guy’s knee. A vicious pop can be heard over the wails.

He hauls the bat back, adjusting his grip and stance automatically. “Batter up,” he says, and slams it into the back of the other guy’s head.  

 _Pow_. Drops like a rock. Jason twists and rolls on instinct, just in case, but the criminal with the busted knee is still on the ground. He punches him twice more for good measure, them he reaches into his belt for a sedative and a zip-tie, quickly administering them both. Soon enough both thugs are down for the count. And that’s all of them. He’s taken down every single one of these child traffickers.

He’s amazed that Batman—or, if not him, Nightwing—hasn’t interfered.

Well.

He’s amazed but not really surprised, to be honest. He’s starting to think that kid he talked to earlier might have been right.

Still though. Used to be, when Bats was out of town, Batgirl was on top of everything and Nightwing was there for support. Of course, Nightwing has his own city now. Batgirl’s been retired for a while.

And it’s not like she could exactly swing from roof to roof now, even if she wanted to.

Jason shakes the thought out of his head quickly, swipes a hand over his masked eyes. He can’t afford this kind of distraction when he still hasn’t saved the kids yet.

Jason sends a message to GCPD, then heads to the trucks. They seem to be sorted by age, which freaks Jason out. Usually these operations, at this stage, are less organized. He files away the scene in his head as he unlocks the trucks and helps the kids out. The last truck is filled with kids who can’t be any older than seven. 

They’re a little less concerned with rescue and more with him.

“Who are you?” One kid asks, reaching out boldly.

Jason lets the kid touch him. “I’m Robin,” he says.

A murmur runs through the tiny crowd. Another kid speaks up, looking at him suspiciously. “The news says Robin wears a buncha colours. And he doesn’t wear pants.”

Jason rolls his eyes. The panties were neither his idea or his fault, he just got stuck with Dick’s hand-me-downs. But to these kids, he and Dick were one and the same. “I got a makeover. Put on extra armour so bad guys can’t see me and I can protect my legs better. Safety first, y’know.”

The kids nod sagely, recognizing the phrase.

“The cops are on their way, okay? They’ll take care of you,” Jason tells them. “I’ll keep an eye on you until they get here.”

And he keeps his word, staying for the next few minutes until he hears the wail of the sirens, releasing him from guard duty. He can’t help but linger, though. As much as Batman and Gordon have done good work cleaning up the force, Jason is still wary of police officers with street kids.

He recognizes two or three of the officers and relaxes.

He’s just hauled out his grapple gun when he spots a kid sneaking around the corner, keeping a wary eye on the cops. Normally, he’d let the him go—if the kid’s avoiding the cops, he probably has a reason.

But Jason recognizes this particular twerp. He avoids the cops easily enough, then swings down and lands directly in front of him.

“Hey.”

Gavroche startles. He turns a burning glare on Jason, but falters when he takes in the costume. “What—what do you want?” His little high pitched voice is shaking.

“I wanted to ask how your friends are doing. Did Dr. Thompkins help?”

Gavroche’s jaw falls open. “That was _you_?”

Jason grins and deliberately does not think about how very dead he will be if Bruce ever finds out how many people have figured out his identity.

“Yeah, that was me. I'm really sorry about kicking her; I was in a bit of trouble. I wasn't thinking straight.”

“It’s fine,” Gavroche breathes, and really, it’s astonishing how different this kid is with a fellow Crime Alley kid than with Robin, Gothamite hero.

Like he’d read his mind, Gavroche closes his mouth and draws his brows together in an attempt at a glare; it’s kinda ruined by the way his eyes are shining.

“She’s fine, too.”

“Good to know,” Jason says easily. “Got somewhere to be?”

Gavroche crosses his skinny arms. “What’s it to ya?”

“Just wondering. See if I could help with anything. Feeling like a Good Samaritan.” Jason winks.

Well.

The wink doesn’t exactly come through right behind a domino mask, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Gavroche looks at him for a second, obviously evaluating him. Jason masks a grin.

He certainly hopes he’ll pass muster for an eleven year old.

Gavroche evidently finds him satisfactory. “Heard someone say there’s an arms deal happening tonight around the alley. Like, around three-ish. Coupla my friends had to ditch all their stuff. Someone said it’s Black Mask and Two Face, but I heard it could be Riddler or Catwoman or Scarecrow, too.”

Jason chokes back a snort. Selina and he had gone to the opening of a new exhibit at the Gotham Museum of Art earlier today. His money’s on her having comfortably snuck back in and out and having found a buyer by now.

Two Face is still in jail. It’s been over a month since Jason had run into him, so he’s probably due for a breakout soon, but not in time for tonight’s arms deal.

That leaves three possibilities. Maybe four, if it’s one of those big names and someone else. Or maybe there’s truth in all of the rumours. Jason grins. He loves surprises.

“Alright. You okay if I take care of that for you, kid?”

Gavroche nods. Then he hesitates.

“Yeah?” Jason prompts.

“Claire’s dad got outta jail yesterday. Can—make sure she’s okay,” he orders.

Jason smiles. “Where does she live?”

It takes him barely any time to stop by the ramshackle apartment where Claire lives. And good thing, too, because if it had taken him any more time he would have been too late to stop Claire’s dad from breaking her arm.

Jason returns the favour, along with a broken nose, two broken ribs, and enough bruises to disfigure his already ugly face.

He bares his teeth. Only a few hours out of jail, and he’s already taking out his power complex on his daughter.

It’s _sick_ , and Jason is furious.

A little hand tugs on his jacket. “Robin?” Claire ventures.

Jason crouches down to meet her eyes and smiles gently. “Yeah. Hi, Claire.”

She gasps. “You know my name?” She asks with wide, starstruck eyes.

“Of course I do,” he says. “You’re a very special little girl. You matter a lot.”

Claire’s lip quivers. “Really?”

Jason nods. “Cross my heart.”

He’s not surprised when she throws her arms around him. He hugs her back, taking care not to aggravate any of her injuries.

“Are you gonna call the police now?”

Jason nods. “Yeah. I can stay with you until they get here, if you like.”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “My brother’s in trouble. Can you help him?”

“Yes,” Jason says immediately. “What does he look like, and what’s wrong?”

She points to a picture lying on the ground. Jason picks it up and examines it while Claire fills him in. “He’s sixteen, and he’s a lot taller than you.” Jason swallows back the very slight, unintentional sting. He’s been hoping for a growth spurt for four years now. “But he’s not as tall as my daddy.”

“Where is he?”

“He said...he told Daddy was going to the docks, and he said someone was mad at him. He and Daddy were yelling at each other.” Claire wraps her arms around herself. “He said it was Daddy’s fault that we owed so much money, and he needed to get this job done and everything would be okay.”

_Everything?_

“Did he say when he had to be there?”

Claire shook her head. “He left after bedtime, but he was already gone when Daddy got mad.” She darts a fearful glance at the man slumped over on the floor. Jason pulls out his zip-ties and goes to work.

 _Fuck_. That sounds like two relatively big deals in one night, and he _has no backup_.

“I’ll take care of it, Claire,” he says, then slips out the window. He perches on the roof and waits until the ambulances arrive.

What’s he gonna do?

Bruce would say to do both.

But he _can’t_. He can’t possibly handle both at once. Even if they aren’t at the same time, he’ll have to keep an eye on the docks all night to make sure he doesn’t miss it. If it happens after three, he won’t make it to the arms deal in time. And if that kid he talked to earlier really _is_ right, Batman won’t be there to split the difference.

He promised Claire. He _promised_ that little girl he’d get her brother back safe. He can’t go back on it.

But he can’t let Black Mask, or Two Face, or Riddler, or anyone in this fucking crazy ass town, have a successful arms deal. That’s his job, his responsibility, his duty. If he fails, who knows what kind of apocalyptic nonsense could happen.

Jason _has_ to call in backup. He comms Selina first, hoping against hope that she’ll be able to help.

“Robin? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. Are you anywhere near Crime Alley? There’s—”

“Sorry, kitten, I left town earlier on business. I won’t be back until morning. What’s wrong?”

Jason sucks in a breath. “Nothing. I’ve got handled. I’ll see you later, C.” Jason clenches his fist. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to do this.

“Robin to Batcave.”

He waits. No one answers. He tries again. “Robin to Batcave. Agent A? Are you there?”

No answer. Goddamn it.

It’s time for the last resort.

“Robin to BG. Are you there? Please be there,” he begs.

Silence.

“ _Please_.”

Click.

“What do you want, Robin?”  
Jason breathes out an explosive sigh, relief crashing over him.

“Can’t get Agent A on the comms. There’s an arms deal going down in Crime Alley real soon, like an hour, and another elsewhere at the same time. Can’t be two places at once. Can you get A for me?”

“I could. I won’t,” Barbara says shortly. “Why don’t you just go home and find him?”

Jason flinches.

And there it is. Exactly what he was trying to avoid.

“I can’t, Batgirl,” he says quietly. She makes a bitter, unhappy noise at the title—or possibly at what he said. He can’t tell.

“I’m not Batgirl anymore.” That answers that question.

He hears some typing, then a sigh. “Agent A is otherwise occupied tonight, and if you aren’t going home, I’m not going to break his heart by putting you in contact with him.”

Jason’s eyes starting burning, and he shoves his forearm across his face to try to dam up the tears.

“Can you get Nightwing in? Is he around?”

More typing. “You’re in luck.” Barbara sounds totally professional and detached, and it hurts, probably more than it should. He knows it has more to do with her injuries than him, and he shouldn’t make it about himself, but he’s always admired her. The coldness in her tone cuts him deeply. “Nightwing had a case in Gotham tonight. He wrapped it up half an hour ago. I can get him back before three.”

Jason slumps, relieved. “Thanks, BG,” he says softly. He hesitates, and then: “I owe you one.”

Barbara huffs, and some fondness creeps into her voice. “More like a hundred.”

Jason moves to turn off the comm, but he can’t stop himself from asking one last thing. “Do you know where I’m staying?”

“Yes.”

Oh.

Well.

Maybe two questions, then. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

“Jason,” Barbara sighs. There’s a long pause, and then the brusque tone returns: “It’s none of my business what you do anymore. What any of you do, in or out of capes. This was a freebie, Jason, and it was a one-off. BG out.”

And with that, the line goes dead.

Jason sighs, rubs his hands over his cheeks. Barbara’s been shut up like Bertha Mason ever since the—the _fucking_ Joker shot her, except for her, it’s self-imposed exile. Jason knows he was extremely lucky to catch her in a good mood, but he still feels guilty. She was done with him since well before she got shot, and he’s got no right to drag her back.

But he had no choice.

Jason inhales deeply, then lets it out. That handled, he can go find Claire’s brother and keep him from doing something _stupid_ and ruining his life.

The western docks are desolate when he gets there. There isn’t so much as a creak from the equipment. No guards in sight. No large groups of people or nondescript, out of place crates.

It’s _suspicious_ , is what it is. Gotham is never quiet, not even at quarter after three on a Thursday night.

Jason creeps along the rooftops, the crates, the cranes, anything he can get his grapple on.

There’s nothing.

Jason clenches his jaw.

If Batman were here, he’d probably tell him to leave, to go and stake out the eastern docks.

Jason gives another glance at the abandoned waterfront.

Batman also taught him to trust his instincts.

He stays where he is.

 

His patience pays off before long, and he watches as thug after thug creeps into the waterfront like cockroaches sneaking from the walls.

Thank heavens, they are all absolute idiots and are not wearing masks, so Jason picks out Claire’s brother the second he enters. Jason sneaks up behind him, and yanks on his arm, hauling him into the shadows, out of anyone else’s sightline.

The guy swings, and Jason dodges easily. He clamps a hand over his mouth. “I gotta talk to you about Claire,” he says. The guy stops dead. “She’s worried about you. I stopped her dad from breakin’ her arm,” Jason squeezes him furiously, “and first thing she does is send me after you.”

Claire’s brother glares at him. Jason releases his mouth cautiously. “If you need help, you can go to Wayne Enter—”

“Fuck Wayne, man!" The boy whispers harshly. Jason rolls his eyes. So this won’t be as easy as he’d hoped. "Who do you think you are? You don’t know anything. This is the only way I can get her out.”

Well, at least he’s not heartless. “No, it’s not,” Jason says, “I swear. There are a buncha _good_ , honest programs that’ll help you and her, get food, get school, get a job, all sorts of things. You don’t have to do this.”

Claire’s brother hesitates. Then he draws himself up. “You don’t know anything,” he says again.

“Last chance,” Jason warns, hoping against hope that he’ll be heard. “This deal isn’t going down. This your only shot to avoid gettin' arrested. What do you think that’ll do to Claire, huh?”

“I’m doing this _for_ Claire,” the guy hisses, then tries to shove past him.

Jason grabs his arm, twists it up behind his back. While the older boy struggles, Jason whispers, “Tomorrow, go to the Wayne building and tell someone about your dad and your sister. They’ll help you.” Before he can protest, Jason reaches into his belt and sedates him. He slumps over. Jason picks him up and slings him over his shoulder.

This guy’s probably only like a hundred forty pounds. Way bigger than Jason, but definitely small enough to carry.

Jason hauls him two blocks away and sets him down on a rooftop. “Stay there,” he tells the unconscious body.

He grapples back up to where he can oversee the actual deal. By now it seems that everybody’s arrived. He hears what sounds like the tail end of them grumbling about Claire’s brother’s absence, but eventually they all subside, and everyone, Jason included, is waiting for the reveal of the product.

A big, lumbering man pulls out a small box from among the shipping containers.

Even from this distance, Jason can see the sickly green glow emanating from the box.

_Crap, crap, crap._

He can’t even have a simple disposal, no. He has to oversee Kryptonite, which means he’s gotta make sure it _all_ gets back to GCPD, and that it all gets documented, and when it inevitably goes missing, he needs to be able to track the culprits down.

Jason growls. He reaches up to yank on his hair.

Well, first things first.

Handle the thugs.

The good thing about secret, lucrative deals like this, the ones that don’t involve big names, means that the security, while heavily armed, is low in personnel. If Jason can disorient the group as a whole and take them out quickly, he won’t even have to worry about the guns.

Jason reaches for his smoke pellets, but before he can throw them, smoke erupts seemingly spontaneously. Jason freezes, hand in the air. Was that kid wrong after all?

Then he hears the tell-tale sound of blunt impact and ringing metal, and he relaxes minutely.

Just Nightwing, sticking his stupid nose into other people’s business as per usual.

Jason scowls, but he swings down anyway. It’s better to have backup than not anyway. And then Nightwing can oversee the Kryptonite and Jason doesn’t have to talk to him and/or get forcibly carted back to the manor. Or CPS.

The goons are handled in short order, except for one, who tries to make off with the Kryptonite. Jason reaches him quickly and takes him down, making him drop the box. As soon as the thug passes out, Jason retrieves the box of Kryptonite.

The smoke clears, and Nightwing is standing over him. _Shit._ Jason looks up and thrusts the box at him.

“Can you handle this?”

Nightwing raises an eyebrow, but takes the box. Jason turns to his probably futile escape route when Nightwing speaks. “You know you really gave Batman and A a scare last month. It was irresponsible. You shouldn’t have stayed out so long.”

Jason turns slowly. _What?_ “Uh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“I hope you told them sorry when you got home,” Dick says severely. Jason ducks his head and nods penitently, struggling to keep his expression even.

“Yeah. Uh, listen, Agent A told me to come home after this stake out, so can you take it from here?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before firing his grapple gun. “Bye!”

He only makes it halfway back to Claire’s brother before he chokes on his laughter.

 

Cars rush along the road below him. The rough concrete of the roof of Selina’s building feels good beneath his back. A bed would probably feel better, but he can’t bring himself to stand up. He stares at the clouded sky and lets his feet hang over the side of the building instead.

It’s well past dawn, now. The city’s come awake, donning its mask of civility, pretending for another fourteen or so hours that it’s a respectable city. Then night will come. The hunt will begin. Sound the conch shell—or light the bat signal.

Jason kicks his heels against the wall. He kind of wants to knock his shoe off. He’s curious about what it would look like as it plummets all the way down and splatters on the pavement.

But he's not gonna destroy a perfectly good pair of shoes just for kicks, so he contents himself with simply dangling his feet.

This is the first time he’s done something like this since he left the Manor. Sitting outside in broad daylight, staying in one place for longer than a few minutes, not bothering to keep an eye out for certain Batpeople, all of that feels very soothing. Just knowing that he isn’t being looked for anymore eases his vigilance, and it loosens something in his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was tense. It also tightens something in his chest, but he’s doing his best to ignore that.

Of course, he can’t be sure that kid—Tim—was telling the truth about Bruce being gone—Batman’s early career was spent being an urban legend. He can disappear well enough.

But at the same time, someone figured out Batman’s secret identity. And that, while terrifying, also tips the scales in favor of that kid knowing where Bruce is—for example, not Gotham.

Jason lets out a deep breath. He sits up and stretches. He still feels too wired for sleep, but he might as well try.

He climbs down the side of the building and slips in the window to his bedroom.

Which is actually Selina’s guest room, and does not belong to him.

Jason swallows down the discomfort that rises in him. It’s become more and more prevalent recently. At first it was just that feeling of living somewhere unknown, that vulnerability he’s always hated. But lately it’s become the feeling of imposition.

This is not his home. Jason knows that. He knows that Selina has her own life, friends—an on again/off again relationship with Bruce, which has been definitely _off_ while Jason’s been here. He knows Selina’s doing it for the sake of fairness to both of them, but he can’t help but feel guilty about it.

Especially because he knows what it’s like to be a drain on his mother’s life. He’s been that before, knows that his birth signalled the beginning of his mom’s downfall.

He grimaces, pushing the thought away. There’s no need to dwell on any of that shit.

He knows something’s gotta give sooner or later, but he doesn’t want to deal with it until he has to.

Part of him whispers that he might never have to, but he squashes it. That’s the kind of thinking that got him in trouble at the Manor, and look how that turned out. And he’d been living there for over two years, not one month. Jason’s not about to give up his heart again.

He pulls off his boots, then his armour. He puts everything away carefully, then he pulls off his mask. Same old domino mask. It’s the part of his outfit that’s changed the least since leaving Batman, aside from the boots. He clings to it. He is Robin, and that mask is the proof.

He sighs, storing the mask with the rest of his Robin uniform.

Jasone gets into his pajamas and his bed, pulls all three of his blankets up to his nose, and stares at the ceiling until he falls asleep.

He wakes to a cat licking his face and the smell of eggs cooking, and the thought of food draws him inexorably to the kitchen.

Selina is humming tunelessly under her breath as she makes cooks. She looks up when Jason walks into the room, trailing a blanket, holding a cat, and rubbing his eyes.

“Morning, little bird. Didn’t think you’d be up for a few more hours still.”

Jason shrugs. Neither did he. Selina turns back to the stove and puts on another pan. “No,” Jason says quickly, “I can—”

“Oh, be quiet,” she says, shoving a handful of broken egg shells into his hand. He yanks back and opens his mouth to keep arguing, but she beats him to the punch. “I’m already cooking, there’s no need to crowd the stove. Put those in the compost—not the garbage, Ivy’d never shut up about it—and sit down.”

Jason crosses his arms and looks away, but complies. His leg bounces, but he hardly notices it. He watches her watching him, a light smirk playing across her lips. She looks—excited about something, and he doesn’t know what. He starts absently scanning the penthouse for clues but nothing seems out of the ordinary. She’s _probably_ not kicking him out, she’d at least pretend to regret it. She probably isn’t mad at him or she’d be more up front about it. The blank, poker face type smirk that she can’t keep off her face should be the biggest tell, if he was any sort of detective, but he’s no Bruce.

He can’t do it.

Jason shakes himself and refocuses on Selina. He narrows his eyes.

What’s she doing?

Selina has gone back to the stove. The eggs are seasoned and there are mostly cooked sausages in the other pan. She ignores him studiously, but the smirk has grown into a smile, and by the time she puts the plates down on the table Jason is about to vibrate out of his seat.

“So I was gonna surprise you later, but since you’re up and about, I think we should do this now.”

Jason tenses a little. He draws a quick breath and his mind races. Say something, anything, redirect, stall for time—

A large, bright red package lands directly in front of him. “Got you something.” Jason stares at it dumbly. Then he registers the words and the context and he stares at it a little suspiciously, trying to figure out what it could be, if it’s dangerous (unlikely but possible). Selina’s face enters his field of vision. She’s bending down, grinning. “It’s not a trap, Jason. Open it. I pinkie promise it’s not gonna bite.”

Jason sticks his tongue out at her halfheartedly and pulls open the package carefully. He takes a moment to enjoy the unripped unwrapped wrapping paper before opening the box, pulling open the flaps.

And he freezes.

 _What_.

His hands shake as he pulls out what’s on top.

“I got you everything for the curriculum for the next two years,” Selina says, looking extremely pleased. _Cat that ate the canary_ , whispers his mind, and Jason barely keeps from rolling his eyes at himself before being sucked back into the sheer joy of holding two years worth of learning in his lap.

“You can homeschool. No matter where you are or what you do, you won’t have to give up—” Jason interrupts her by throwing himself into her arms.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “ _T_ _hank_ you, Selina.”

She runs a hand through his hair lightly, then gives him a little pat. He lets go of her, embarrassed.

Damnit. He’s blushing. Way to play it cool.

Jason clears his throat and looks away from her, staring at his books instead.

He’s never gonna have to play catch up again.

He gets to keep learning, no matter what he does.

His heart swells at the thought, and he can’t stop a grin from shoving itself onto his face.

He can’t wait to tell Bruce—

Oh.

Right.

 _Oh, right!_ “Selina, is Bruce still in Gotham?”

Selina looks taken aback, but a shrewd look crosses her face. “What makes you ask?”

Jason waves a hand in the air. “Met a kid, said nobody’s seen Batman in a week. But he’s just a kid. What do _you_ know?”

“Who says I know anything?”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“You know _everything_ that goes on with the masks, on either side.”

Selina laughs. “I wouldn’t quite say everything,” she says, but her smile has a tinge of pride in it. “As it happens, I do know that Batman isn’t in Gotham right now.”

Jason sucks in a sharp breath.

“Your little friend’s observant, but he’s not quite right. A little bit behind. Nobody’s seen him in a little more than two weeks. Before that, all he did was rampage through the streets, tearing them apart. Then he disappeared.”

Jason frowns. Bruce could be in danger. He clenches his jaw, not sure how to take the news.

“Relax, little bird,” Selina says. “You know he’s been gone longer working on cases.”

“I know,” Jason mutters. He can’t shake the feeling that he should be with Bruce, should have his back.

And then his brain rebels against that thought. Why should he be with Bruce? Why should he be the one to look after Bruce? He’s clearly not wanted in that position anymore.

But it’s his position all the same.

“What’s wrong, little bird?” Selina asks.

Jason sighs. “I’m just...” He trails off trying to get his thoughts in order. Suddenly he feels the need to get out. To go home.

“I gotta go.”


	8. You Were Never a Friend To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made. Introspection occurs. Arguments are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to start off by saying you, who are still with me, are perfect and wonderful and I owe you so much. Thanks for being here, and especially for your comments. Sorry I don't respond. I get caught up feeling I've left the old ones too long, and I don't want to respond to the new ones without answering the old ones. Anyway! This chapter gave me trouble, but on the bright side I combated writer's block by writing chunks of literally every other chapter to come. I can't guarantee updates will go any faster, but I can guarantee this work will be completed. Enjoy! And really, thanks for everything.

"What’s that?” Selina asks, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips pursed ever so slightly. Jason winces. She’s not really displeased, but he can tell he surprised her.

“I can’t stay here, Selina. I—” Jason cuts himself off and looks away. Squares his jaw. Speaks what’s been eating away at his mind for the past month. “I know you haven’t been able to see B since I showed up. Or—or Ivy or Harley, either. At least not here. You deserve to have whatever relationships you want, on your own terms, and you can’t when I’m here. I don’t...” he trails off, collects himself. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and tries again.

“Look, you’ve been great and all, but this isn’t my home, and I can’t impose, and I’ve already been here way too long, and that wasn’t our deal, and Batgirl already _knows._  They’ll get suspicious and come after you, we can’t keep ‘em away forever, I don’t know how we’ve managed so far.” He stops to collect his thoughts. Then cracks a weak smile. “‘Sides, I’m a big kid. I can handle myself.” He tries to meet her eyes. Fails. “I don’t need to be looked after.”

Jason stops, risks a glance up at her. She’s just...looking at him. Her face is blank, and just the sight of that unreadable expression makes his heart speed up and his back straighten. His mouth is dry and his palms are sweating and he doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so stressed.

The tension is _killing_ him. He hates it. His words start spilling out of him like a flood, worse than before. “And anyway I’m not gonna be Catlad, okay, the press would suck and the sidekick scene isn’t really for me anyway, cause lemme tell ya, if I’m not Robin anymore—and who says I'm not Robin anymore anyway, huh? Just ‘cause I left Bruce and he said I can’t be Robin anymore doesn’t mean he’s right. That’s garbage. Just ‘cause Dick gave up and picked another name when _he_ got fired doesn’t mean I have to—”

“Jason!” Selina interrupts, blankly amused and vaguely indulgent, and he gets the feeling she’s tried to get his attention a couple times already.  

“Yeah?”

“Breathe, little bird.”

“I’m breathing fine,” Jason snaps.

“Yes. _Now_ you are,” Selina says, amused. “It’s a little harder to breathe when you’re spitting out words a mile a minute.”

Jason scowls. He was breathing just fine. Even though he’s got no clue what he wants her to say, he crosses his arms and waits. For something. Anything.

“So what are you going to do?” She looks politely disinterested, aloof, the same expression he’s seen her aim at Bruce when they see each other as civilians. Minus the empty flirtation.

Jason bites his lip. “I’m going to help people.”

“Without a home base? Without medical supplies? Without money? Not even Batman started out so bleakly.”

“I'm not Batman," he growls. "And others have started with less.”

“You’re awfully optimistic, kitten.” Her lips curl into a smirk.

“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

Selina pauses. “And you haven’t considered a reconciliation?”

Jason cuts her an irritated look. “ _Obviously_ , I have. Why else do you think I’m going back h—,” he cuts himself off. He runs a hand through bed head made worse by his hands yanking the strands around. “I’m open to talking. But you _know_ I’m not going back on the same terms as before. I’m getting a better deal this time.”

“And you didn’t think you had it good last time, is that it?” Selina stretches languidly, and for all that Jason knows the condescension is a tool to make him talk more, he doesn’t have it in him to resist. He wants to tell someone; he wants to tell _her_.

“Sure I did. I had three squares a day, and warmth, and school, and a.” He chokes. Rallies. “I had a dad, and Alfred, and I had Dick.” He pauses. “Well, I had proximity to Dick. And he was awful a lot of the time, but he was still there, and a hundred thousand times better than Willis any day. But. It was." Jason squeezes his eyes shut, cursing himself for his lack of composure. Resolutely does not imagine what Bruce would say if he saw his abysmal attempts to keep it. "They had total control over what I did as Robin. And I know it was just for me, because Dick had the Titans and solo missions and  _way_ more freedom by the time he was my age. And I don’t know if it’s because he thinks I’m incompetent or if he thinks there's something _in_ _side_  me, if he thinks I’m going to turn into Willis, but it’s how it’s always been. And after what happened—after what he thinks I did, after what he thinks I am, after making himself so clear about how guilty I am—like I could ever, in any possible world, just murder someone in cold blood, like it's something I'd want—he’ll watch me like a hawk. He won’t ever trust me. And I can’t _live_ under scrutiny for the rest of my life. I won’t. Safety and comfort isn’t worth trading myself away to be managed and handled.”

He looks down and finds that at some point he wrapped his arms around himself in a sad, lonely parody of a hug. He lets go.

Jason flushes red all the way to the roots of his hair. He wanted to share, but not this much. Or more like he wanted to share this much, and just because he changed his mind doesn’t mean he can take them back. All that’s left for him to do now is damage control.

He pivots, grabs the books off the table with a little glance at Selina to make sure she doesn't want to take them back—and of course she doesn't, she made it clear that this was a gift, but he can't help but feel like he'll lose everything because he can never  _ever_ pay her back—and disappears into his room.

He emerges a few minutes later with his uniform and equipment packed into a single bag and heads for the window.

“Stay safe, little bird.” Selina calls. He glances over his shoulder, and finds that she looks intensely satisfied and approving. Her eyes are gentle, though not exactly happy.

“Will do,” Jason murmurs.

“And,” Selina pauses, features twisting somehow elegantly, her aloof smirk at odds with the kindness in her eyes, “call me if you need anything.”

Jason pauses and feels his shoulders loosen. Tears sting his eyes and he swipes a hand across his face before he looks back with a crooked grin, heartened but still sad. “Hey Sel?”

“Yes, kitten?”

“You were. You were great. Thanks. I’ll find a way pay you back for this, I swear. This was amazing.” He gestures at the open box still on the table.

Selina taps him on the nose. “'Tis a strange truth that only in the agony of parting we look into the depths of love.'”

Jason smiles at her and pulls open the window. Then, before he can reconsider, he spins and grabs Selina around the waist.

“Bye, Mom,” he says. He doesn’t give her a chance to react before escaping the apartment.

He flies from one roof to the other. The sharp Gotham air smells sweet to him. He stops and looks back at Selina’s penthouse, almost lost among the many other Gotham skyscrapers.

Jason takes a deep breath. “I’m no one’s sidekick,” he tells the empty air. “This is my city now.”

Everything the light fears to touch. That’s his domain, and he _will_ protect it.

He’s still tired, and his swings are sluggish and slow, barely clearing any higher than he feels the need to go. It’s worse once he leaves the skyscrapers and heads off into rich people suburbia. He curses himself as the last opportunity to grapple passes him by, and he climbs to the ground. He should have brought a car or a bike or _something_. He’s an idiot. The trek is slow, especially because he’s tracing back the same path that was meant to take him away forever. The roads and the trees seem to stretch on forever this time, though they hardly seemed to exist the last time he saw them. He barely even saw them, to be quite honest.

He wishes that he’d stayed with Selina. This was such a bad idea. Why did he leave? A line from Sylvia Plath’s journal pops up in his mind, and he mutters it to himself. “And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.”

Was that all that waited for him at Wayne Manor?

He stops walking when his nose is a few inches from the gates. Jason blinks, surprised, then disgusted with his lack of awareness. He clenches and unclenches his fists, runs a hand through his hair. He hadn’t looked in a mirror before he’d left, but he knows he must look like an absolute mess.

Hopefully Alfred will forgive his sad lapse in self-care.

That is, if Alfred is willing to forgive anything. Jason wouldn’t.

Jason pulls open the gate and walks up the long drive to the doors. He feels like he’s walking on Jupiter; every step drags him further into the asphalt, sucking him down until he melts into the gaseous core of the world. The pressure of putting one foot in front of the other exhausts him; he’s practically panting by the time he arrives at the door. He’s definitely sweating.

Jason firms his mouth, raises his chin.

 _Here goes nothing_.

Jason raises his hand to knock, but the door is hauled open before he gets the chance.

“Master Jason,” Alfred breathes, and the air of Venus is added to Jupiter’s weight, strangling and choking him, Alfred’s own gravity added to the rest that’s pulling him down. Jason bites his lip and awaits sentencing. He jumps when an old and thin, but deceptively strong hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Will you come in?”

Jason looks down. He nods. Alfred doesn’t visibly react, and Jason feels trepidation rising in him again. He wishes desperately that Alfred would just sigh, or something, so he could know if he was relieved or furious. As it stands, Alfred is unwaveringly polite, the way he is to Clark and Vicki Vale and Jack Ryder and Dick and just about everyone on the planet, no matter how he feels about them.

Entering the manor is an experience entirely unlike the first time he did it.

Then, he stared in awe and no small amount of discomfort at the opulence of the place, ceilings stretching high as the sky, windows everywhere, priceless evidence of history hung on walls or displayed on pedestals. He’d felt small and cowed. The manor was a whole world unto itself and might swallow him up.

Now, as he walks in, it feels smaller—or maybe he’s too big for it. Jason winces at the thought. But all the same, it’s familiar, and comforting, and with Alfred at his back he feels safe.

But before he walks into the lion’s den, he needs to know if it’s waiting for prey or if it's gone hunting.

“Where’s Bruce, Alfie—Alfred?”

Alfred’s face is typically stoic as he looks over at him. “Master Bruce is in Ethiopia, Master Jason.”

Jason startles slightly. “What’s he doing there?”

“He was following a lead on a case in Lebanon, and while he was overseas, just after he had lost the trail, a warehouse’s worth of medical supplies in the Magdala Valley were found to be poisoned.”

“Poisoned?”

“With Joker’s laughing gas, Master Jason.”

Jason’s fists clench. _Joker_. Of all the rogues Batman dealt with, Jason hates the Joker most. Most of the others, Jason can have compassion for; he’s seen most of them struggle with what they do, or at least why they do it. They’re sick.

Joker’s not sick. He’s just twisted. He isn't suffering; he just wants to see people suffer.

Jason _hates_ him.

“Was anyone hurt?”

Alfred closes his eyes and pulls himself taller, the way he usually does when Bruce is being really irritating about something and Alfred wants to ground him.

Not that Jason would use that word in front of Bruce.

Not without a camera to capture his reaction, anyway.

“Please, Alfred?” _I_ ’ _m worried about him_ , he doesn’t say.

Alfred purses his lips. He doesn’t look away fast enough for Jason to miss the grief filling his eyes. “An entire refugee camp was slaughtered before the Joker’s plot was discovered.”

Jason can’t breathe. He shuts his eyes, but all he can imagine is the bodies that must have littered the Magdala Valley as far as the eye could see.

He forces himself to suck in a breath. “No survivors?” His voice breaks.

“None, I’m afraid. A Doctor Sheila Haywood was missing for a time, but Batman discovered that she had been embezzling funds and was blackmailed by the Joker.”

“And he killed her.”

“Yes.”

Jason pauses to feel the grief. He’s seen too much death.

He’s so _tired_ of people _dying_.

“But Bruce is alright? And he’s coming h—back?”

Alfred nods. “Are you?”

Jason stiffens. “No.” Then he bites the inside of his cheek. Clenches his fists. “Maybe. But,” he runs his hands through his hair, “not until I talk to him.”

Alfred says nothing for a long moment. Jason stares at his shoes for just as long. He hates feeling like this in his own—in Bruce’s house, like any wrong step will get him thrown out. It’s been years since he felt like that.

Excluding the time he _was_ , actually, thrown out.

And besides that, he just said he’s not coming back, so it shouldn’t bother him. He raises his eyes to meet Alfred and oh.

He doesn’t care about being thrown out, true. He does care about disappointing Alfred.

His eyes drop again.

“Master Jason, you should come home.”

Jason freezes for a moment. Then fury boils in his blood. “And what you and Bruce think is always what’s right, isn’t it?” He’s not yelling—he could never, not at Alfred—but he can't be mistaken for anything but angry. “You and Bruce, you talk about me behind my back, you make all my decisions for me. I’m sick of it. You don’t _listen_ to me, you don’t _talk_ to me, you just talk to each other and I’m incidental.” Tears pour down his cheeks and he dashes them away harshly.

Alfred’s face is unreadable, and even as Jason feels like he’s drowning in guilt, he doesn’t regret his words. Everything he’s said is true. He’s heard them discussing him before, the “anger problems” and the mommy issues and what-the-fuck-ever else they find wrong in him.

No matter how much Alfred loved him, or he loves Alfred, he had no right to do that. And he won’t be controlled anymore.

“I’m leaving,” he announces, drawing his chin up and narrowing his eyes, pretending for all he’s worth that his eyes aren’t shining with tears and that his nose isn’t red and snotty.

He makes it to the door almost blindly, then turns around. Alfred still looks polite, but there’s an undeniable tension in his face and shoulders that Jason doesn’t know what to make of, so he ignores it. “Tell Bruce—when he comes back, tell him I’m willing to _talk_. But I’m not going to be talked _about_ , I won’t be treated like a problem any longer.”

He closes the door gently. Then he flees.


	9. Experts Say I’m Delirious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adapting to life alone is harder than he thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to litnerdhood and cerusee for being beautiful people who looked this over for me, and to lysical for her encouragement <3 You're all wonderful
> 
> Happy Birthday Jason!!

It’s only one in the morning and Jason is already exhausted. Rain pours from the sky, hard and biting, and it’s harder to ignore when he knows going home will only make him colder.

Jason would much rather melt into the dirty sidewalk than freeze in an alley any day; he hates the cold. And he’s _angry_ about it, too. It makes no sense. It’s early June, summer is right around the corner, but winter still blows its icy breath into the city, a haunting reminder that it is always around the corner, hanging around until its time comes again, until people scramble for shelter and death hovers over the street corners. And Jason _hates_ it.

The bad weather means that the flies are gone and all the petty criminals and F-list villains are out in full swing. Jason hasn’t been going after anyone breaking into a store getting food or clothes or blankets.

He would have before, because he could have bought them whatever they needed. Now, he can’t even buy himself a hot dog from a street vendor without worrying about when his cash is gonna run out. He can’t help anyone if he’s dead.

His mind whispers that there will be no one left for him to help if he lets them starve, but he tamps it down. He hasn’t got time for guilt until he can find a way to make money.

Jason keeps his money on him all the time. It’s the safest place it can be. He would keep his books with him too, but they make for highly unbalanced grappling, which sucks, but sacrifices have to be made. Instead, they stay at the little safe house he’d been preparing while at Selina’s, just in case he would have to leave without notice again—and he did, even if wasn’t for the reasons he’d originally thought it would be.

It’s far from finished—it has a working door and a working lock and running water, and while that’s more than you can say about half the apartments in Gotham, it’s not much for protection or. He doesn’t have a bed, he doesn’t have medical supplies, he doesn’t have a security system, and he certainly doesn’t have a heater. Why would he? It’s _fucking_ _June_.

But the point is, he’s hidden his books under the flooring beneath a cupboard with a removable bottom, which is cliche, but it should be enough to throw off petty thieves.

He doesn’t take off the Robin suit anymore if he can help it. The extra warmth has been a benefit these last few days, and he just doesn’t have anywhere to hide it. He can’t leave something like that lying around; it wouldn’t just be bad for him. Anyone to figure out his identity would make the leap to Batman and Nightwing within the space of a thought. So the Robin suit stays on unless he has it within his sight, and then only for washing.

Life on the run is much more difficult than Holden Caulfield made it seem. And that on its own is surprising, because to Holden, absolutely everything was a world-ending ordeal.

Life on the run is more difficult than Dick made it seem, too. But that might just be because Dick can do just about anything. Jason huddles into himself a little. He misses Dick. Not a lot. Definitely not. It’s barely even a thought, honestly. But it is there. Jason wishes he could get his advice on this. For all that he’s a terrible technical brother, he still gives good advice.

And he misses Selina, even though he saw her just recently; she was climbing out of an art gallery and waved at him. “Meet up later?” He’d hollered after her disappearing shape.

Two hours later, she tracked him down on the roof of the Kane building and she’d brought Chinese takeout. “I insist,” she’d said when he tried to protest. But Jason had his pride, and he was already in enough debt to Selina; he refused to put himself in deeper.  He had pulled out some cash and put it under the tray of takeout, looking pointedly at Selina, squaring his shoulders. She’d sighed and taken the money, and he’d picked up the takeout. Selina put an arm around his shoulders. “Alright, listen, I need a righteous type to brag to, and Batman isn’t around.”

“If you’re looking for a saint, Catwoman, you got the wrong guy.”

“Oh, please, birdie, don’t sell yourself short. Honestly, you’ve got the moral compass of a much older man. Much older. Born-in-Victorian-England older.”

“You really wanna bring up age jokes, Baby Boomer?”

Selina had gasped in outrage, pulling a grin from Jason. “Well, if that’s how you want to play it, Junior.” She pulls his takeout out of his reach. “I guess I’ll just go get you some formula instead of fried rice, since that’s more your speed.”

“Rude,” Jason had muttered, still grinning. “Crazy old cat lady.”

“None of that now. Respect your elders, son,” she’d said, wagging a finger at him. He’d blushed and looked away, eyes stinging, and Selina had taken pity on him and steered the conversation to her heist. This latest one was some solid “this belongs in a museum” Indiana Jones type of fun. She’d recovered a black market item from the shady gallery owner _and_ rearranged all the other pieces in the gallery, hiding priceless paintings and leaving incomprehensible clues (signed Riddler, “specifically to incite Eddie to glorious and impotent rage,” she’d laughed), making a statue of Aphrodite kiss Cleopatra, drawing whiskers on all the dirt bag’s original pieces, etc. She’d actually said etcetera, and Jason laughed so hard he snorted. “Not my best work,” she had admitted, with a grin, “but I only had a short time frame, and I wanted to make it as difficult for him to figure out what was taken as possible.”

Jason couldn’t help the stars in his eyes as he laughed along to the story. Justice served creatively was better than going after money for money’s sake, and though Selina frequently did both, Jason was never more comfortable than when she played avenging angel.

Jason thinks back on the conversation, examining his thoughts. Money serves a purpose; therefore one should have as much as necessary to complete the purpose. It’s money that gives Batman such an edge, and has Jason at such a disadvantage.

Even just thinking of Batman makes Jason peek over his shoulder, wondering if tonight is the night the caped crusader makes his reappearance.

The looming spectre of his conversation with Bruce fills him with dread, stomach made of lead and brimming with butterflies all at once. He’s dedicated to waiting until Bruce comes back and contacts him—but he doesn’t know when he’ll be back, if he isn’t already, and he misses him. Some nights are so cold, painful and filled with nightmares, that it takes all of Jason’s will to keep from reaching out to pick up his phone.

He can’t get warm. Jason shoves his hands into his makeshift utility belt, hoping to shield them from the cold, when a flash of colour catches his eye, and he turns to follow it.

Jason catches the last of someone prying up a manhole cover. He sighs, shivers, and rolls his shoulders. If anything could be worse than the windy rooftops, it’s the freezing sewers.

Jason swings down silently, slipping into the hole. He snorts to himself. This amateur didn’t even cover their tracks, or close the manhole. Either they’re in a hurry, they’ve never done this before, or they’re idiotic. Possibly all three.

Probably all three.

The sewers are still horrible, and he troops through the congealed globs of who-knows-what quickly, breathing through his mouth.

He hears a sharp squeal up ahead, and he hurries his pace, worried. The Gotham sewers have never been safe for anyone.

He speeds around a corner and slams directly into something hard. It shrieks, and Jason most emphatically does _not_ , and they both go tumbling down into the ankle high muck.

“Ew,” the mostly brown shape cries, “ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, _gross_ , oh my god, ew—”

“Yes, it’s gross, I get it,” snaps Jason, now also mostly brown and in an even worse mood. “What are you doing down here?”

“What are _you_ doing down here, you—Robin?” The thing stops shorts, presumably in shock, though Jason can only see gigantic eyes under a hood. The rest of its (possible) face is hidden under a mask. Jason narrows his eyes.

“Who’s asking?”

The thing straightens up. Jason gets the impression that it might salute.

“Spoiler,” the brown blob says, cocky and nervous all at once, and by this point, Jason _thinks_ it’s a girl.

Jason stares for a couple seconds, trying to puzzle this out.

“Are you, like...trying to be a vigilante?”

“Nice tone there, Mr. Condescending, and yes, I _am_ a vigilante. I spoil crimes.”

“What type of crimes?” Jason asks, interested despite himself. He’s never heard of any street-level crime-fighters in Gotham outside Batman’s network. They usually give up, or Batman discourages them, or he drags them over to his side, like he did with Batgirl.

“All types,” Spoiler says, all cocky now. She pauses. “Mostly Cluemaster.”

Jason snorts. He can’t help himself. “How hard can that be? Everyone knows he’s just a discount Riddler. See, if you were spoiling Riddler’s crimes, that would be impressive, because he’s an A-lister. Until he opens his mouth, that is, then you just wish he’d hurry up and kill you. ‘Course, Cluemaster can blow plenty of hot air all by himself. Kinda sucks the joy out of it for me, I gotta say. Speaking of spoiling his crimes, what’s he up to today?”

Spoiler glares up at him. “So, what, you think you’re special because you know the dumb code? Cluemaster isn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the interrogation room.” She makes little jazz hands beside her head. “Realistically, if he had two brain cells to rub together, he might think of switching up his tactics every once in awhile, and, uh, that’s never happened. Even a seven year old could figure out his code, and I say that with confidence, because _I_ did.”

“Not exactly winning your case here,” Jason says, amused.

Spoiler rolls her eyes. “What, spoiling his crimes means I like him? Oh, well, in that case, I guess I’m talking to Joker’s biggest fan.” She raises her eyebrows at him, a pretty clear “try again, pal” and continues: “For Pete’s sake, Robin, just because I acknowledge that he sucks doesn’t mean I suck, too. Frankly, I think my case is pretty solid, and, you know, I’ve proved at least one of us can use the code without sounding like a glitching robot.”

Jason stares for a second, running her speech over in his head. When he puzzles it out a second later, he laughs. “ _N_ _ice_.”

Spoiler’s eyes crinkle. He thinks she’s smiling. “Eh, it’s not a big deal, not when you’ve been reading it for years. It kinda gets into your brain.”

Jason shakes his head, still laughing a little. “All the same, you’re a pretty well spoken seven year old.”

Spoiler rears back, affronted. “I am not seven.”

Jason hovers a hand on top of her head and draws it out, measuring her height. It barely reaches his armpit, and he knows he’s not tall. Yet. It’s gonna happen one day, he’s sure of it.

“Could have fooled me, shrimp,” he says, sawing his hand through the air between his chest and her hood. He brushes her hood on one of his swipes, and he stops. Spoiler’s eyes are narrowed, clearly gearing up to say something, but he’s distracted.

 He gingerly grabs the edge of the grimy hood and pulls on it lightly.

“Is this a blanket?”

“It’s a work in progress!”

“It’s a blanket.” Jason says, delighted. “You’re a seven year old fighting crime in a blanket cape.”

“I’m not seven,” she growls.

“But it _is_ a blanket cape. Oh my god. This is amazing.” He laughs. “This is, without a doubt, the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

Spoiler stares at him, and despite her covered mouth, he’s pretty sure her lips are twitching.

“It’s not like you have any room to judge,” she grumbles, and that’s a _definite_ grin in her voice. “You _just_ figured out that human people are supposed to wear pants outside.”

“Whoa, hey, that wasn’t _my_ idea,” Jason protests.

“What, wearing pants? So you still need someone to dress you,” Spoiler says, shaking her head and tsking in mock disappointment. Jason presses his lips together tightly. “All I’m saying is, you can keep your comments to yourself, Traffic Light.”

Jason looks down at himself and grimaces. “I’m not much of a traffic light covered in this gunk.”

Spoiler looks down too. “Oh, ew,” she says again. “I _just_ washed this blanket.”

Jason snorts. He’s not looking forward to the cleanup of his outfit either. “Blankets aren’t all that good at deflecting bullets, Spoiler. You might want to consider kevlar. Excellent sense of humour, though, I’m definitely a fan.” He turns to walk away, waving vaguely at her.

“Wait,” she calls. “Um, do you wanna get some ice cream, Robin?”

Jason stares, horrified. “It’s, like, 40 degrees outside.”

“Well, okay, you big wuss. I’ll get ice cream, and you can get, like,coffee or something. _”_

 _I’m not allowed to drink coffee_ , Jason almost says, then kicks himself. It doesn’t matter. It means nothing to Bruce anymore if he ruins his teeth or stunts his growth. It isn’t his problem anymore.

He can have coffee when he damn well pleases.

At least until he and Bruce talk.

“I just—” Spoiler continues, looking down briefly, then whips her head up, looking directly into his eyes, determined. “Look, I’m new at this, and I’d really like it if you gave me some advice, okay?”

Jason’s mouth drops, a little. His jaw works for a few seconds, unable to find words. Spoilers shoulders droop.

“It was just a thought,” she mutters, turning.

“No wait, “ Jason says, practically stumbling over his words and feet to make her stop. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Spoilers eyes light up.

“And as a matter of fact,” Jason says, “I know the perfect place.”

A pair of brightly dressed children covered in sewer matter isn’t a particularly discreet picture, so Jason and Spoiler part ways for an hour.

It takes the whole time to just get the uniform clean again, so he’s running ten minutes late when he makes it back to the rendezvous he pointed out to Spoiler.

He perches on the roof of the shop, blowing on his hands, scanning the streets for her blanket covered head.

“Whatcha lookin’ for,” a voice pipes from his elbow.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Sorry I’m late, Spoiler,” he says, turning, “I was—ah!” He yelps.

“’Sup,” the little blonde girl in bright clothes and _no mask_ says. She flexes her skinny arms. “See something you like?”

Jason rolls his eyes again, with vigor. Maybe if he rolls them hard enough, she’ll see them under the mask. “Your face is showing,” he says between clenched teeth, looking around furtively.

“Uh, yeah? No kidding, detective?” She lowers her tone to match his, though she’s seriously lacking the shock and urgency this situation calls for. “Why isn’t yours?”

“I have a _secret identity_ ,” he hisses. Pauses, then, “Also, how would I get free food if they don’t know I’m Robin?”

“ _Nice_.” Steph nods decisively. “No judgement from me, Traffic Light.”

“So she says, and yet,” Jason mutters, but he starts his descent, Spoiler right beside him. “Seriously, I’m not kidding. What about your identity?”

“Pssh, who’s looking for Spoiler?”

“Cluemaster, maybe?”

“Nah, he doesn’t know what’s going wrong. Like you said; he hasn’t exactly got Riddler-level skills.”

Jason twists his lips to one side, but concedes. It’s her choice, after all.

“You do you, I guess. You know him better than I do, anyway.”

“Unfortunately,” Spoiler mutters.

Jason ignores it, feet touching down.

“Alright,” he says, offering her his arm exactly as he and Alfred practiced, “I believe you requested ice cream?”

She grins and loops her arm with his. They stroll toward the door and Jason spares a thought for how _weird_ the pair of them must look, Robin in his strange mishmash of black armour and bright colours and a little blonde girl holding onto him confidently, as at ease as if she was in her own living room.

There’s a man sitting by the door, sporting a scraggly beard and well-worn clothes. His head is bowed, eyes closed, but Jason is certain he isn’t unaware. He’s obviously been trying to avoid the cold; maybe he’s been kicked out of the shop and he’s pressing his luck by hanging around the door.

Jason swallows.

He can’t.

He doesn’t have enough money to pay for _himself_ for too long.

He won’t.

It isn’t in his nature to share, not like it is for some people. He knew a lady when he was young who would give away her last dollar to a kid they saw on the street, no matter how much more she might need it. But that's just not who he is. He takes what he can get and keeps it; he had to, for his mom.

But he has money for the next couple of weeks. And after Batman gets home, after they talk and Jason negotiates with him, Jason can see about getting a job.

Maybe this man can’t do that.

Jason huffs heavily through his nose and stops, pulling Spoiler with him. He undoes the catches on his belt and pulls out some cash, standing a few feet away from the man.

“Hey,” he says, and the man looks up. “Can I buy you something?”

The man looks at him, unimpressed. “This is an _ice cream_ shop.”

“Told you,” Jason mutters to Spoiler. He refocuses on the man and extends the bills in his hand. “‘Kay, well, you can take this if you need it.”

The man grunts and takes the cash. He doesn’t thank Jason.

Jason did not expect him to.

He walks through the door, Spoiler trailing behind him, offering a cheerful “Bye!’ to the man sitting against the wall.

Jason holds the door open, and Spoiler walks up to the counter, throwing her hair over her shoulder and smiling brightly at the girl behind the counter, who grins back. She orders Cookies’N’Cream on a cone and tosses a nonchalant “By the way, I’m Steph,” over her shoulder.

Jason blinks.

Stares.

Blinks again.

He runs his hands over his face and presses his fingers against his eyelids. “ _Stop doing that_ ,” he hisses.

“What? It’s not like you’re going to turn me in. You’ve been pretty chill about this whole thing.”

“Are you stupid?” Jason parts his fingers so he can glare at her. “You can’t just hand out your secret identity. Anybody could be listening.”

“Okay one,” Spoiler aka Steph aka turning-Jason’s-hair-gray jabs a finger at his chest, “don’t ever take that tone with me again; two, there’s literally one person in here other than us and she’s busy; and three, even if anybody _was_ listening, they wouldn’t think _I_ have an identity to cover up because I’m dressed normally, unlike a certain colour palette disaster I could name.”

Jason doesn’t back down. “You’re _with_ the aforementioned colour palette disaster, genius, they’d be interested in you anyway, and now they have a name.”

“A first name.”

“And a description.”

“Because blonde girls are oh so rare.”

“Hi, what can I get you?” The cashier’s voice breaks into the altercation between Jason and this absolute madwoman and Jason turns to order a double double because he’s had Bruce’s black coffee and it was _vile_ and he’s not willing to set himself up for that sort of pain again. He waits for the drink, staring Spoiler down while she walks away to claim a corner booth.

And now she’s eating her ice cream without waiting him.

Rude.

Jason turns to take his drink with a smile, then he stalks over to the booth.

Jason puts his drink down on the table across from Spoiler. She starts to speak, but he holds a finger to his lips while he runs the other hand along the underside of the table—ugh, _gross_ —and then along the plastic covered seat and seatback. He gestures at Steph to copy him and she does, though she looks confused, and she narrows her eyes at him.

When Jason is at least 65% satisfied that this booth has not been bugged, he nods to Spoiler. “Checking for listening devices. Thanks for not talking.”

Stephanie raises an eyebrow. “You’re, uh...a little bit paranoid, huh?”

Jason sort of shrugs, affixing a “what can you do” expression to his face. “Comes with territory of everybody always trying to kill me.”

“Sounds fun.”

Jason grins. “ _So_ fun.”

And over splashes of coffee and drips of ice cream, Robin and Spoiler go over the minutiae of crime fighting. Jason is careful to share only things that won’t hurt them if they get back to the big bads—there is, after all, a 35% chance they’ve been bugged—but useful enough for the likes of Cluemaster and the rest of the regular Gotham crazy crew. It’s funny, Jason didn’t realize how well he’s learned his lessons from Bruce until Spoiler begins picking his brains for tricks of the trade. Jason finds himself spouting mantras and aphorisms that Bruce drilled into his head, repeating them to Spoiler while she nods and scrunches up her forehead in concentration.

“Alright, Sensei,” Steph says, after a while, “teach me about fighting.”

Because that isn’t a broad subject at all.

Jason inhales deeply, leaning back. “What do you know already?”

Steph gives him a look. “You hit the other guy until he goes down.”

Jason winces. He’d set himself up for that. “No, I meant—Have you taken any classes or anything?”

“Self defence classes at the community center.”

Jason nods. That’s good, he can work with that. “Okay. So the main thing is that self-defence is all about letting you run away. It’s not meant to start or to finish a fight; it’s just supposed to keep you alive long enough to get away.”

“I’m not gonna lie, bro, that sounds pretty good to me.”

“Well, it is good,” Jason hastens to add, “it’s useful against most of the people you’ll come up against. A lot of the principles carry over. But it’s different to defend than to track someone down and make the first move. The element of surprise isn’t taught in self-defense, and surprising them is the most important thing you can do. We aren’t ballistic missiles; we’re hidden daggers.”

“Dramatic,” Steph notes, and Jason rolls his eyes at her and emphatically does not pout in any way, shape, or form.

“Anyway,” he over-enunciates, “Keep doing self defense, but you should find something offensive to add to that.”

“Got any suggestions?”

“Judo, krav maga, maybe. You should try out a couple different types and see how they fit.”

“Like I have money for multiple martial arts classes.”

“There’s nothing at the community centre?”

Spoiler sighs. “Maybe, I don’t know. I’ll check. If they don’t I’ll look up some tutorials on Youtube.” She cocks her head, considering him. Jason feels  suddenly self-conscious in his mismatched suit of black armour over his colourful costume. Which is ridiculous, because she was literally wearing a blanket cape an hour ago. “How’d you pay for all this, Robin?”

Jason gives her a disbelieving look. “I didn’t.” Steph doesn’t say anything, she just waits for more. Jason rolls his eyes behind his mask. For such a bright girl she overlooks some pretty basic stuff. “I’m Robin, Steph. Batman taught me.”

Spoiler stays silent, staring at Jason. She tilts her head and looks at him consideringly, and Jason feels scrutinized again, and worse, he suddenly feels like she didn’t overlook anything; he’s the one who isn’t bright enough to understand.

He feels like just the simple, obvious words “Batman taught me,” have somehow incriminated him and given her everything she wants, and he doesn’t know _why_.

Just as the silence is becoming _super_ awkward and Jason is on the brink of not being able to take this weirdness anymore, she nods decisively.

“So speaking of Batman, have you seen his latest way of putting Gotham on the international map?”

Shit.

Of course he has, but that doesn’t mean he wants to talk about.

Especially not with a stranger.

Jason’s been trying to avoid thinking about Batman’s most recent televised exploit: namely, attending a meeting at the United Nations where Joker had somehow also managed to get in.

Legally.

As a fucking ambassador.

It made Jason’s head hurt to think about for too long—and not just his head, though Jason did his best not to acknowledge that pain at all.

“Yeah, I saw it. Ambassador Joker, that’s what they’re all calling him, right?”

“Uh-huh. It was so wild, watching it live. Did you get to?”

“No.” In truth, Jason had been sleeping in a corner of his safehouse with his cape wrapped around him while Batman was fighting for his life and the political future of over a hundred countries. Jason had had to catch up online after the fact.

“How does that even happen? How could anyone possibly look at his ugly, pasty face and his creepy grin and think ‘huh, yeah, this is exactly who we need representing our country’ like a bunch of genre blind horror movie extras?”

“I haven’t done any research yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Mad Hatter had something to do with it.”

“Mad Hatter? Why?”

“Mind control.”

Steph shudders. “Ugh. Pair of creepers, both of ‘em. They should join a club. Creepy murderous psychos anonymous.” Jason snorts. “Do you think they’re friends or something?” Steph leans closer. “What if they’re secret lovers?”

Jason recoils as Steph collapses into giggles.

“No, no, seriously, though, if Joker had mind control why’d he go for ambassador instead of president, or whatever?”

“I literally do not care how or why the Joker does anything unless it helps me catch him, and I'm not on this case.”

“Okay, okay, that’s cool. Oh, but did you hear about the helicopter?”

Jason curls his shoulders in and clenches his fists, remembering the news coverage of Batman pulling Joker out of a crashing helicopter; remembering, too, the scenes from the Magdala valley. “Yes,” he mutters.

“God, what is wrong with Batman? He really can’t live without him, can he,” Steph laughs.

“Yes he can,” Jason spits, shooting to his feet, leaning back and away from her. “Why do people _say_ that? He can live just fine without Joker; he hates him, we all fucking hate him, but Batman never lets _anyone_ die on his watch if he can help it. That’s what makes him a hero.”

Spoiler puts up her hands, a clear surrender. “Sorry, dude, I didn’t mean it as like...anything bad. ‘M just saying, if I were Batman, I would have left him there. Not, like, tied him to the steering—uh, yoke?—or anything, but save your own ass first, and let the damn Joker lie in the bed he made.”

Jason crosses his arms and gives a lopsided, despairing smile. “Amen, sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch the Cluemaster's Code sprinkled in there? If you guys ever recognize any of the references I put in here, feel free to comment. They're easter eggs for all :)


	10. Cause a Scene Like You're Supposed To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all of you for your lovely comments; you keep me going, and you're all wonderful. <3 For those who didn't catch the Cluemaster's Code last chapter, it's the letter of the first word in a sentence. Jason said "He Sucks. Steph said: Screw Off. Jason, later, said: Bye. 
> 
> A HUGE thanks to litnerdhood, without whom the second half of this chapter would never have existed. You're an angel and I love you.  
> I hope you all enjoy! I look forward to hearing your thoughts :D

Fists and blood and curses are flying, staining the night, and Jason can barely keep up through the din. His rage doesn’t diminish as he pummels this scumbag; it just grows. The stupid, _stupid_ kid already ran away. Jason slams the palm of his hand into his neck. She was clearly a rich kid, well-dressed, and he doesn’t know if she was getting this stuff for herself or someone else, but he doesn’t care. He delivers a vicious kick to the man’s face. She’s just a little girl, for heaven’s sake. She made a mistake, sure, but it’s the responsibility of adults who interact with her not to enable those mistakes, and this sack of dicks knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

She looked younger than Steph and she—this creep—Jason can hardly think for the fury.

“What is wrong with you,” he screams, fully undignified. In whatever miniscule part of his mind still thinking about such things, he’s glad he’s not crying, but the rest of him could not possibly care less about how he looks right now. “She’s just a kid, you swine, she’s a kid, what’s _wrong_ with you?”

Not as articulate as he’d like, but he’s not counting on his words to stop this scum from dealing to children. He’s counting on his blows.

He brings an elbow down and feels something crack.

The thug babbles away under him, swearing to never do it again, sobbing apologies, begging for forgiveness, blaming the economy and the gangs and that _child_ , everyone but himself, and it washes over Jason like the smell of Gotham and the feel of the acidic rain; present but unnoticeable, unimportant.

He grabs the guy by the shoulders, so angry he can’t even see straight. He hauls him up and slams him into the pavement.

Again. Something shatters.

This hasn’t been a good night. In fact, this has been a rotten night, ever since the moment he pulled on his Robin suit and realized he was physically outgrowing it. All he could think at that moment was how right Selina had been. He’s not an independently wealthy billionaire who can funnel money into the best armour around. He’s just a kid—a homeless kid—with limited resources, and he’s so _so_ afraid that helping others is going to have to take a backseat to taking care of himself.  He’s afraid the day is coming, and soon, where he’s going to see someone sitting out in the cold, and he’ll have to decide to leave them there.

It makes him feel sick.

And for the first time it really, honestly hit him what he’s done. He’s left two homes, claiming how ready he was, how Dick had done the same at nearly the same age, how much experience he had—and here he is, camping out in an abandoned apartment, looking over his shoulder every other second, barely sleeping.

At least Gotham’s food services are still providing free food for their vigilantes. Jason doesn’t know how he’d manage to be Robin if he couldn’t get food during patrol.

He knows something’s gotta give. He can’t go crawling back to Selina. He won’t. He already said his goodbyes and started paying his debts, and for all that he’s made it a point to run into her and chat once or twice since the day they got takeout, he’s not willing to go begging for help again. She's not cut out to be a caretaker, and he—he isn't cut out to be taken care of. And more than that, he refuses to prove her right. He can do better than this. He’s had time to plan. And he does have a plan. It just wasn’t quite ready to be implemented when he left the penthouse, and that’s thrown a wrench into his living conditions.

And to top it off, today marks a month since he dropped in at Wayne Manor and spoke to Alfred, and Batman has been back for a week, at the very least, and he hasn’t spoken to him.

Maybe he made his case too well. Maybe he won’t be able to go back no matter what.

Maybe Bruce is glad he’s gone.

Jason winds up again.

A wire coils around his wrist and yanks it sharply back, hauling him off his feet. His heart pounds in his ears and his stomach churns. He rolls and regains his balance; it is far more than most people can say when they’ve been knocked down by Batman.

“What the fuck?” The words leave Jason in a shocked burst, and he could have slapped himself. More than two months since he last saw him, and _that’s_ the first thing he says.

“What are you doing?” Batman growls, parroting Jason’s words back to him from when he had first confronted the dealer.

A coincidence, surely.

“Hey, B, wow, it’s good to see you, too! It’s been a while. How ya been?” Jason asks, overly chipper and with a sharp grin, edging away from the bloodied man on the ground.

“What. Are. You. Doing.” Batman repeats.

Jason makes an exaggerated expression of disbelief, raises his eyebrows, widens his eyes, and glances between Batman and the thug on the ground. “Is this a trick question?”

“Rooftop. _Now_ ,” he adds when Jason hesitates. They pull out their grapnel guns in unison and fly up the side of a skyscraper, skimming the sheer glass and rough stones, all the way up to the roof, away from prying ears and eyes. Batman rounds on Jason almost before his feet touch down. “This is serious, Jason. You’ve broken three of his bones, at the very least. He’s nearly unconscious.”

“And that’s, what, going too far?  Unforgivable? Sorry, what’s that, countless thugs in body casts and comas?” Jason cups his hand to his ear. “Hypocrisy? Mmm, thanks, gotcha.”

“What’s going too far is treating vigilantism lightly, Jason. You caused someone’s death a few months ago. Don’t you understand that this isn’t a game?”

As soon as those words leave Bruce’s mouth Jason knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he can never go back with him, and he has to choke back the tears that are suddenly obscuring his vision.

“All life’s a game,” Jason says, smirking, as acid rises in his throat. Batman growls and words start pouring out of him, but they wash right over Jason. He can’t focus on them enough to hear.

For all that he already knew Bruce blamed him for Garzonas’ death, for all he already knew his word means nothing compared to Bruce’s lack of trust in him, he still feels freshly betrayed.

And the thing is, he knows that Bruce loves him, honest, he does. Bruce is his _dad._ But no matter if Bruce loves him—or how much he loves Bruce—he can’t go back with him.

More than two months since they spoke, since Jason fled, since Bruce kicked him out. Two months, and his absence has barely been noticed. Two months, and Bruce only cares to lecture him. Two months, worrying about if Bruce was alright and if he needed someone (if he needed Jason) for backup, and Bruce could only think that Jason was out hurting people for _fun_.

It’s not just that Bruce doesn’t trust him, or even that Bruce thinks he’s a murderer. Jason can’t live with someone who lets cruelty into his words, deliberately or not, just because he doesn’t know how to show worry with them.

The old fear of being turned over to the authorities rises like bile in his throat, drowning the new hope that they could talk it out, that Jason could negotiate and go home.

“That’s enough, Bruce,” Jason says, and it comes out firm and sure, which is not at all how he feels. He’s sure Bruce will see through him, talk right over him.

Instead, he looks a little surprised—or as surprised as The Batman can be.

Jason takes a deep breath and continues. “Listen, Bruce, I...I _love_ you,” and if his voice cracks horribly on that word, they both ignore it. “And I know for some reason you won’t believe anything I say, but you are _wrong_ , about this, and about me. Why’s what I do any worse than what you do? Is it because you’re Batman and I’m  Robin, and Robin is _chirpy_ and _happy_ and never _ever_ as dangerous as the big bad bat? Newsflash, Bruce,” Jason throws up his hands, worked up, disgusted, “You’re the one who told me I’m not _Robin_ anymore.”

“And whose fault is that?” Batman growls.

“ _Y_ _ours_ ,” Jason cries. “It’s your fault. You could have listened. You could have believed me. You could have given me a second chance, the way you give all the crazy murderers outta Arkham a second chance.” _But I guess I’m just not worth it_.

Jason looks up at Bruce, furious, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement or acceptance, a denial of the words Jason didn’t dare to speak.

Batman says nothing.

Absolutely typical.

Jason sighs. “I don’t kill, and I will not kill. But I am not you.” He pins Bruce with a vicious glare. “Some people deserve to die, and like _hell_ am I gonna go out of my way to save their lives. You want to talk about causing people’s death? Fine. Let’s talk about how the blood Joker spills is on your hands now, too. Did you ever think of that, Bruce?”

Silence hangs between them, and in the mounting tension Jason recalls a line from a book he’d found in Selina’s library: “I felt a queasy mixture of relief and horror, like when you finally stop an itch and realize it’s because you’ve ripped a hole in your skin.”

Bruce maintains his silence, but Jason imagines he can feel the weight of his disapproval bearing down on him, constricting his chest and stealing his breath. He sighs. “Just forget about me, Bruce. Let me go and leave me alone, like you did with Nightwing. It worked out all right back then.” Batman’s jaw tightens and he draws himself up taller. Jason mimics him and adds a glare for good measure. “Why are you even coming after me? You fired me and threw me out—”

“I did not," Bruce growls. "That is not what happened.” 

Jason’s face screws up in disbelief and confusion. “What? No, you know what, okay, whatever,” he says, fury draining out of him. He is _not_ up to debate this _fact_ with Bruce just so the old man can alleviate his guilt. At this point, he’s exhausted.

He wants Bruce to hug him and take him home.

He wants Bruce to never talk to him again.

He wants Alfred. He wants Barbara. He wants Selina. He wants none of this to have ever happened.

But he’d do it again all the same way if he had to.

The thought leaves Jason almost dizzy. But it’s true.

Even safety and the love of a father aren't worth staying for, not in the face of constant suspicious and distrust, not if it means Jason can’t do what he thinks is right. He’s been a solo hero for months now, and he loves it. He wouldn’t give it up for the world. Some of his worries melt away as the thought crystallizes in the uncertain spaces in his mind. No matter what happens to him, no matter what the future holds, Jason knows he’ll be helping people until his last breath, regardless of how much money he has or if his uniform fits.

“Go back to the cave, Batman. I’m not Robin anymore, thanks to you. And thanks to _me_ , I’m something more. I’m better. I don’t need you,” he says, and it’s cruel, but he wants to see how Batman feels when someone is saying that to _him_ for once.

Batman doesn’t react, and Jason loses all feelings of guilt. “Anyways,” he says, “I’ll see you around, old man.” He fires his grapnel gun, but Bruce grabs his arm.

“Jason,” he grates out, “I love you.”

Jason bites his lip. He blinks quickly, hoping against hope Bruce doesn’t see it or the tears pushing against the sealed bottom of his domino mask. “I love you,” he echoes, hollow. His lip trembles as he finishes the quote. “‘ _Is that a fact or a weapon_?’”

Bruce lets go of his arm like Jason burned him; his eyes widen under the cowl, the tiniest motion that only someone intimately familiar with masks would see.

Jason’s face crumples and he drags a hand over his own covered face, trying to shove the tears back into their ducts. Then he’s gone, a shrinking red and black spot on the Gotham rooftops.

 

Bruce stares after his quickly vanishing son. Jason is right. He didn’t go after Dick. And eventually, Dick came back to him.

Jason will do the same. He’s sure of it.

And Bruce _will not_ manipulate him into doing it.

He opens communications with Alfred, but he hesitates when he tries to speak.

How can he explain this to Alfred?

He sighs heavily. If only Jason had listened to reason. Whatever had happened to him, to make him so brutal and so resistant to Bruce...it worries him. For all of Dick’s rebellion, he had never behaved like this.

But Dick _had_ left. And Bruce is steadfastly _not_ thinking about how both of his sons have left home, well before their time, because of him. He’s not thinking about how afraid he is that one day Dick will disappear for good, that Jason will lose himself, that he’ll never have another conversation with one of his boys without shouting. He’s not thinking about the dangers he faces on the streets every night, the ones that Jason has no protection from. He’s not. All he’s thinking about is his next step.

“Sir?” Bruce shook himself. He had forgotten Alfred. He can’t afford slips like that, no matter the events which have happened. He’s Batman.

“Jason’s safe,” he tells Alfred. “He looks healthy.”

There’s a pause. “Is—” Bruce hears Alfred clear his throat distantly, likely holding the communicator at arms length. “Is Master Jason with you?”

Bruce winces. “No.” Not yet.

Another pause. Then— _click_.

Alfred shut off the comm. Without warning. Bruce grimaces.

Alfred had been so upset when he’d relayed the particulars of Jason’s visit to Bruce. He’d hardly rid himself of his costume before the words came pouring out of Alfred, describing Jason’s appearance and his emotions and his words, and Bruce hadn’t seen Alfred look so wrung-out in years.

Bruce’s children have been a blessing to both of them, and Alfred is much more indulgent with the boys than he ever was with Bruce. The difference allowed between a parent and a grandparent, Bruce will sometimes think in moments of self awareness. He understands, though, of course he does. He has a hard time saying no to them, too, unless it’s for their safety.

But the look on Alfred’s face when he described how Jason felt controlled and managed, how he felt they’d been disrespecting his boundaries? It was devastating. Even if Bruce had been inclined to coerce his son into returning, hearing Jason’s thoughts through Alfred’s mouth would have cured him of any further desire to do so.

He just hopes he won’t regret that decision.

But it will all turn out fine once Jason comes back. And he will, once he’s gotten over this fit of rebellion. Bruce knows it. He will get his son back.

_Crack!_

Batman spins around and ducks, taken off guard.

Catwoman stands before him, suited up and wielding a customary whip. A teasing smile hovers over her lips, but her eyes are chilly.

“Another stunning success in the art of parenting, I see.”

Bruce clenches his jaw. He turns to leave.

“What, not even a hello? Why, _Batman_ ,” she purrs, “that’s positively rude. And I come bringing news of your wayward bird, too.”

He halts, hating how obvious his weakness is. “What do you know?”

Selina smirks, leaning languidly against a smokestack.

“What don’t I know?” She parries the question.

“I’m not in the mood for games, Selina.”

She hums. “You rarely are, these days. You never used to be so boring, did you?”

He does not dignify her question with an answer. He pulls out the grapnel, already worn out and unwilling to pry answers out of her. A hunch grabs his mind, and he turns back.

“How long was he with you?”

Selina looks at him, eyes narrowed. Batman can tell she’s debating whether she should just tell him, make it easy for him, or if she’s going to make him work for it, if she’s going to toy with him.

She slouches down gracefully, having made up her mind. “He hasn’t been back to the penthouse since just before he spoke to your,” she pauses giving the appearance of choosing her words carefully, “gentleman’s gentleman.”

A month ago. Jason’s been alone for a month. Panic seizes him, climbs in the back of his throat, but he beats it back down, reminding himself that Jason looked healthy and well-fed just moments ago.

Though not well-rested.

“You purposefully kept Jason away from me. Away from his _home_ and from safety.”

“Don’t be silly. Those words aren’t synonymous anymore, not to Jason. I kept him as safe as he would be.”

“You should have told me. He’s my son.”

“Well, he’s my son now, Batman.”

“You’ve only had him for a month, at most.” Bruce’s exasperation is rising, along with other emotions he refuses to name, and he struggles to keep his voice flat.

“And you had him for two years and yet you never managed to instill a shred of self-confidence in him,” she says shortly, still leaning comfortably against the hard brick. “Or maybe you did. Maybe you managed to make him believe he was worth the universe, but you stripped it all from him by casting him out of your home for making a mistake.”

“Is that what we’re calling murder these days?”

“Goddamn you, Bruce, why don’t you ever listen to people when they speak to you,” she says, her body snapping upright, composure disappearing, leaving an expression of raw fury on her face. She turns to leave, and Bruce grabs her arm quickly.  He can't lose the only source of information he has on his child, especially if what she says is true, and not just an attempt to manipulate him. He can’t take the chance of ignoring her, even though her words pierce his heart.

When exactly did Jason stop believing he was magic?

How much of it was Bruce’s fault?

“I didn’t throw him out, Selina. This is all a misunderstanding on Jason’s part. I just need to make him understand that.”

“And you did _such_ a wonderful job just now.” Selina rolls her eyes. Her lips are still tightly pursed, but the tension disappears from the lines of her shoulders as she slips back into her indifferent guise. “Whether or not you kicking him out was a misunderstanding, he obviously thinks that’s something you would be willing to do. And more than that, he clearly didn’t misunderstand the fact that you think he’s a _murderer_. So now he thinks he was never good enough for you, and that’s why you fired him, that you were just waiting for an excuse because you knew he could never measure up to your standards.” She casts a cold look toward Batman, advancing on him him. “Did you know that, Bruce? Did you know I held that boy on my lap while he _wept_ for you? Did you know I woke him night after night from nightmares where he begged for you forgiveness?”

“He doesn’t seem to want it now,” Bruce says automatically, fixating on the last sentence while his mind reels.

“No, he doesn’t,” she says coolly. “He’s learned that he doesn’t need it in order to be a hero. He’s learned that he _is_ good enough—more than.”

“He learned that from you?”

“Well, _someone_ needed to tell him.”

Bruce files this away to process later, focusing on facts. And the facts are that Jason hasn’t been with Catwoman at all for the last month, and he looks exhausted, and his suit doesn’t fit. He’s getting taller.

Bruce imagines his son growing up without him, imagines seeing him one day in the future and not recognizing him, imagines recognizing him but missing everything that turned him into the man he has become.

Bruce ignores the intrusive thought as best as he can, determinedly staring at Catwoman despite the niggling fear. “Where was he before? Where is he now?”

“How should I know,” she says, and there’s a note of finality in her voice.

“Selina,” he says. “I need to know he’s safe.”

She gives him a long, appraising look. “He’s safe from you. I think that’s what matters most to him right now.”

This time, Bruce lets her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did reference Gone Girl, I'm exceedingly weak, I acknowledge it. And yes, that is the same Margaret Atwood quote I used in Don't Wanna Be Perfect (Just Alright). It's just....so perfect for Jason and Bruce and I'm never ever giving it up.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at my writing tumblr! commandthetides.tumblr.com


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